Don’t tell me self-hatred is weaker than love,
It can wreck like a blunt arrow the heart of any dove,
Inward detestation could sink a thousands ships; slay a thousand armies; worse still
It slays my tongue
Before I speak
And so these words of love, I keep.
It breaks my fingertips as they crack with hesitation,
Fearful to touch you,
Lest you feel the ugliness woven into my very DNA,
Unless with our kiss you step back in shock,
Abruptly aware of the loud knock,
Of my pathetic wooden heart
And its far more pathetic owner.
I am not anxious of others hating me,
I have already won that game with myself.
I am only terrified that all these lies,
A broken mirror of despise,
Revealing my pale insides;
Made of desires and chimeras and decay
Built on the foundations of a dead boy’s body,
A boy long dead,
After other ‘humans’ fed his little head,
With what was right
And what was wrong.
Don’t you dare pity me, PITY HIM
For he is King of a legacy of loathing
An inheritance of curled lips yonder deceitful smiles,
Of trembling hips and bloody tiles.
A collection of antiquated memories of a time when I would not collapse at the thought of being me,
Crammed into the recesses of a far too conscious mind,
Which is altogether gone as its spiteful mocking words,
The most truthful spoken, replace him
A metropolitan of dissatisfaction and yearning
Consuming a weeping forest
Which cries out for help from its own children,
Who tear down its trees to excrete into existence
Monstrous pillars into the sky,
Dedications to the disgust,
And the manic grins which lie,
Running electrically through the City streets,
Like over pressed suit trouser pleats.
He walks away with confidence.
Smiling in the sun, exuding scalding joy,
To fill the void of hate
With conviction of contentment,
It’s too late.