Inspired
My mom always told me that the word "hate" was too strong a word. She told me that people who hate are people who are tiny. As a kid, I thought short people were being punished for being mean. I grew up, and realized that my mother stands 5 feet tall in high heels. Waterloo is everyone's downfall. I wish I could hate. It used to be easy. Like a well honed metronome that ticked back and forth driven my pure, slate cold hate. I gazed like a god down on her and knew that smiting was tough work. No one respects a good solid emotional genocide. Fake tears painted on black to mimic a feeling that has been drained out and squeezed, scraped out of the peanut butter jar because you're sure you can get four more sandwiches out of it. I am easily distracted, I don't hear people talk, and I am gettting old. Enough to let go of hate, forgetting the fuzz of eyeliner and cover up coating my tounge, sunlight too easily replacing lust with pity. Ten years of lying and writhing next to forgetable outlets of rage. No one ever got my musical tastes, or my humour. Dostoyevsky blew Niche and spat out 800 pages try to get the taste out. I wish that I knew what invincible felt like again. Flying off of high rises, kissing the sky without a trace of irony. Bottled youth is all the rage with the kids these days, trying to capture yesterday like trophies of other people's underwear or discarded cigarette butts that vary in taste and color, and are vaguely rebelious. Because your apex was middle school, and now burning out for sixty years is staring at the wires and wondering about the cordite smells. I wish I kept the wool, there are so many eyes that need it.