TO STARVE AND SATE THE HATE

It has to go.

A recent event sparked in my chest a ball of fury such like my little body has never before contained. The fury sprouted legs, mated with my innate intensity and bore Hatred. Since then, as new facts and details nourished the hate through puberty to vicious adulthood, I’ve felt a pulsating heat coursing through my bloody veins and darting along my nerves.

It’s disgust. Pure, sterilized loathing.

And it’s much too much for me to carry.

Never before have I been smacked with such a potent spate of enmity, one that nicks my nightly recovery and taints my days’ exchanges. I’ve been angry before. I’ve felt swells I’ve termed hatred; but when I did so then, I was wrong.

This black revulsion outdoes any rays of Negative I’ve experienced before.

Before, I could cart, even nurse, bad feelings. The growth and demise was interesting to watch. To watch and to release, for without further offense I forgive fast. This time, it’s heavy—this downbeat sits on my chest preventing the breaths my yoga practice has taught me can cleanse; this time the weight is more than I can make useful or haul around with me.

Cold hate is devoid of emotion; it’s molecules frozen. Burning hate is emotive and spreads like wild fire, eating interactions and hobbies, excreting them as banalities no longer worth loving—each love not enough to fill the hot hate’s insatiable appetite and bottomless belly.

My hate is hot. It’s singeing my soul and triggering a Self that isn’t true.

This hate tints the physical Me. My thudding heart can be heard by others. My brows bind together and give in to gravity. My steps echo more thoroughly in hallways. My mouth finds its corners to weighty to hold up.

If I don’t kill the hatred, this harsh habitat within me will mock any smiles slyly slipping by and twist laughter into lung-racking coughs.

I have to shift the power the loathing sprung from fury has over me into a tool that will self-destruct.

I quite simply cannot function under these conditions.

It has to go . . .

• • •

Ahhh.

Without even delineating the details, that was cathartic. A chemical powder on my internal forest fire.

I feel much better now.