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  • Writer's pictureAlice Wyatt

When All I Know to be True is - Not


visceral hate

claw with talons

sunk deep into soft belly

tighter and tighter

agony ripples outward

no room left for breath

hate is pain


to the ends of each finger and each toe

energy pulsing then ebbing

into agonizing apathy

hate is a spring

welling up out of ones wounded soul

its reservoirs deep in places

never quite healed though you tried

God knows you tried

is it hate that destroys, or the one who

wounds to begin with?

the one supposedly listening but never changing

one who is always sorry and

will do better next time?

hate is a volcano

wounds find their voice


destroy all


and blame

and condemnation


pressure gone

time slips by

a clean slate


new life

I have found

to my great dismay

contrary to all I have been told,

all I want to believe,

hate is power


Do I believe this in my core? No. But I do believe hate gives power to keep going when the ability to love or forgive or understand or withstand, seems nonexistent. I have clung to hate when I needed to stay afloat on a sea of despair. When I wrote this it was the only thing flowing from my heart to my pen, all other emotions were drowning. The release I found in putting the ugly honesty of it on paper, was healing.

Maybe, (I am putting a good spin on this so you won't think so badly of me), maybe hate is a placeholder for love at the opposite end of the journey. The courage to embrace hate creates a path to love, if you don't give up.

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