For roughly 2 years, I’ve been on a crusade of sorts. A grand quest to eliminate hate from my heart. The journey has led me down many new paths, planted new routines that are blossoming into a brand new, refined lifestyle. However, the hold over of hate remained in many areas. Feeling powerless, fearful and hopeless I cursed the fact that I just cannot escape hate. Since then, I loosened my theoretical handcuffs, and accepted the fact that some things I’m allowed to hate. Here is a list of things I’ve allowed myself to hate. By listing them, I refuse to let them unravel my mind, and posion my heart.
I hate standing at crosswalks.
Waiting for a line of traffic to notice me.
As if I blend into the background, the drivers continue their commute, drink their coffee, fix their eyebrows and pick their nose.
I hate this pen.
For ensuring I can only describe my mental health in silly metaphors, and messy similes.
I hate my psychiatrist.
For not being very good at riddles.
I hate music.
For never being loud enough to calm my anxious heart.
I hate that I’m afriad to be myself.
I look to others to tell me what to believe, and how I’m allowed to feel.
I hate my feet.
Tapping out of my control. To nobody’s beat, not even my own.
I hate the church.
I left at age 12, yet have spent every day since terrified of a God I don’t believe.
I hate my notebooks.
Full of empty pages, and stories that could have been.
I hate my brain.
For expelling memories of childhood.
Hanging on to memories, garnered from stories I’ve heard retold.
I hate the word hate.
Because I’ve failed to expel it.
Hate is what destroyed my mind, ravaged my heart, and stole my life from me.
I hate hate.
Pouring through the veins of our community.
Washing through the eroding shore of our parliament.
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