The Person I Hate The Most

Sometimes I hate myself.

I hate that I get high and I hate that I always seem to get by.
I hate that I often lose my phone and that I am threatened to lose my home.
I hate that I can hate myself so much that I do not see that there is anyone I can trust.
I hate that I ooze hate and that it is a reflex I can’t negate.
I hate my attempts to rhyme and I hate that it doesn’t work out half the time.
I hate that I think I’m something special because I have reached my threshold.

Because I hate disappointment.

I could turn this around and talk about what I love and tell everything else to shove it.
I could say that I love that I am brave and that I have things to say.
I could celebrate my body and the strength that I have built upon me.
I could be proud of my wandering mind and trust that there is still more value to find.
I could be easy and do the things that please me.
I could lie and deny this hate that builds inside.

But I know that it’s there.

It is a burning that tears down my soul,
And a feeling that is difficult to ignore,
It washes over me without a choice,
And it is in those moments when I lose my voice,
To the crushing sounds of another,
One that wants to smother,
Any sign of strength I might be holding onto,
And the tasks on which I thought I’d follow through,
It debilitates and resonates,
These feelings of hate.

I cannot help but listen.

Because what is the point?
How can I fight?
When there is nothing worth living for and nothing I like?
Hate is an old friend,
One who inspires the movement of this pen.
And if hate can do that,
How can I hate hate?
But it’s not hate that I hate,
It’s me and the things I allow myself to be:
An addict,
A bad friend,
And someone who has sunk into depression.

Hate is nothing I want to be.
But it is a part of me.
And that is plain to see.

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