The Hatred of Things
To those who hate the most mundane things,
I understand them.
I too hate the things,
all things.
I hate my voice.
Its echo shivers down my spine.
I hate my mind,
with its impure thoughts,
schizophrenic, often cursed.
I hate my eyes
and their inability to see,
in the world,
a place not full of hate for things.
I hate the streets scrubbed clean on blank Sundays.
I hate the shine of storefronts that never want me.
I hate the precise ticking of the clock
as if time had the right to go on.
I hate the peace sold on billboards,
the toothpaste smiles,
the softness of sheets that never hold me,
the doorknobs that turn
into empty rooms.
But most of all, I hate hate
for it makes me write.
And in writing, I love.
And loving, I forgive.
And forgiving,
I become the very thing I despise:
a thing.
among things.
of things.
– Credits: “Chinatown, New York, United States.”