I am hatred incarnate.
Blood-soaked sins of my past
Plaster red this acrylic painting
Of vivacious colors matching
What I saw in those vibrant eyes.
Can every deliquesce from my perception.
This, like the paraplegic’s legs
Or the seeress’s vision of war,
Is my unholy curse, wrought by imprudence:
Negligence toward my better judgment
And a rapacious desire to elevate from my caste.
It is a railroad of mistakes that have left me jaded—
Barreling down on a locomotive,
Only to realize the tracks have been laid
And I revolve in an infernal circle
Around the crux.
And though I abhor the path I am on,
I cannot step off, lest I face the truth:
My soul yearns, not for forgiveness
But to forgive.
To yield is to pardon you,
To proffer up what you never had the heart to request
Because, in truth, you do not need it;
You do not require my absolution to subsist
Or carry on an empyreal life,
And despite my laments, the hatred I have assumed,
I have not the heart to forgive;
And so I do not fear death,
For I am already in hell.