A Study of Hate and Love and Love of Hate in a Hated Spring of Loving Greats

I hate your hate,

I hate your love,

but oh,

how I loved your smile

and I loved your eyes.

I hate your life,

just as you hate it too

and you’d do anything 

to not hear my words,

“I hate you too.”

Hate’s a debate of the mind

and the heart

though the heart feels no time

and the mind has the art

at carefully expanding the minutes and hours

then collapses them together

in memories and flashes 

of jagged black towers,

poking the sky with their skewer tops

rising together in a growth of calcium 

and wet, airy springs.

I feel the hate in my memories

of songs and dances

when times felt good

and love spread through my skin

like a fire in woods,

the heat I felt is no different 

than the one scorching the branches

and blackening the limbs,

the fire of hate

and the love of hate,

the hate of love,

is this really what I’ve become?

 

I love your hate,

I love your love,

but oh,

how I love your frowns

and I love your cries.

Is there a distinction between

these polar opposite emotions?

If on the ends of magnets,

does love repel love

and love attract hate?

You hate my writing,

and I hate your claims

that the world is simple,

and I’m either black or white,

isn’t there an option to like or dislike?

Neutrality’s a decision,

when a bias is present between two warring countries

an argument of friends,

their words stab at your conceptions

with heated swords of bigotry and biases.

Me, I always vowed to steer myself away

from the canyons of hate,

it’s a river running furious and illogical,

because the only place it can deliver me

is into more hate

and away from love,

though your love has faded

and morphed into something more similar

to a snapping dog outside your apartment.

And I hate that I told myself to feel only from dislike to love,

because you’ve stretched out my spectrum

from loathing to love

and more than anything I hate a broken promise,

even if it’s to myself,

that I would never hate anyone.

Well, you can feel proud to know

that to me,

you’re the first in my life,

the one and only.

I hate you,

I hate you,

and I hate that you deserve it.

Poem for a Friend (Igloo)

I built you an igloo 

out of straw and mud.

“contradiction,” you said,

 but still I built.

In a house full of diamonds,

you would begin to appreciate me,

you would break your back to love me,

in a house full of diamonds.

 

The igloo, unfortunately, melted the next day

in an unexpected, catastrophic  almost classical

heat wave.

It was too hot to breathe 

or live.

 

I lay where my igloo sat last night;

my hair and clothes soaking

in the mud,

and I imagine all the young people,

beautiful and alive

jumping into the lake.

Off of rocks goes a girl in her underwear,

off the docks, a boy wearing orange gym shorts.

The whole town takes off for the beach,

and you and I are left alone,

in the spot where your igloo sat.

 

This is how things start,

this how they continue,

and this is how they end.

Rap Rant Face

Tell me fathers, why do you want to punish your daughters?

And brothers, do you not feel at all for the fate of your mothers?

What’s the point of control when control’s an illusion?

And I sit in my room and I write this allusion.

Are you afraid of the end of your millennial patriarchy?

Cause if not for the matriarchy of your sisters and wives

you’d be nothing but an idea floating in time,

loosely connected to nothing and no one

fighting for existence in a universe that doesn’t give a shit

about the battle of the sexes, your elegant messes

pushing you deeper into a state of depression.

The same one I’m in when I look at the news

and little girls in Afghanistan are getting raped and murdered

for refusing to marry at the age of eleven

and the woman president is voted away 

cause assholes in suits think a woman in charge

will make an image of weakness overlarge.

Did your god ever tell you to take advantage?

Your God never told you that you had to ravage,

kill or maim, that’s all you, you are to blame.

Don’t put the finger on me if my dress is too short,

if my top is too low and I’m overly drunk.

I’m not at fault for the values to which humanity has sunk.

This isn’t about hatred of men.

I don’t hate men, in fact,

I love men so much I want to be considered their equal.

 

Greed, crime and poverty, all are related

though none were debated in the media outlets.

No logical conclusion came to the presidential candidates,

each a joke in his own way.

Greed is a crime, causing poverty, when poverty 

is a lack of resources, greed is the hoarding

of the necessities to which a young mother needs,

causing poverty. And when poverty is so ubiquitous,

how does one come across those necessities? Food,

shelter and running water?

Rob a bank.

Shoot up a liquor store.

Run a pyramid scheme.

Human trafficking, girls kept in cages raped repeatedly

all in the name of profit, a perfect example of criminal greed.

How do you justify it to yourself? Making a living, 

turning a living soul into an object to use for financial gain.

In this case illegally, though in many prime examples

we see it done, systematically, legitimately and overwhelmingly,

legally.

I am not a cologne bottle, a beer bottle or any container used to hold liquid.

My legs do not exist to sell your product and promote consumerism.

My breasts exist for my pleasure and I will not allow a bottle of champagne

to come in between them. 

If you want to feature me in your advertisement,

clothe me and make sure that I’m not just a standard of Western beauty.

Give me dark skin, with whatever hair I was born with, no weave, no dye, me.

My ass does not exist to be rapped over, to be groped.

I am not an object, I am a fucking human being,

I am worth more than the profit you’re making off of my exploitation!

Your exploitation promotes nothing but violence and hate,

because in order to justify violence against a human being, one must first

turn that person into an object. And it’s a well known fact 

objects don’t feel pain or pleasure, but I sure as shit do.

So when you smash your wife into a wall,

“she’s not your wife, she’s not a person, she exists only for your pleasure.”

This is what we are told, as young girls.

 

When I look at a magazine, I can think of only one thing,

my worth as a human being is based entirely 

on my aesthetic appeal, forget the ideas and theories

I may have formulated, my knowledge, my authentic zeal

if I’m ugly then I have no future, this is what I learned as a young girl.

There are many negative messages coming from so many sources,

“you have to get married to a man, be pretty, don’t talk to much,

you have no opinion and if you do, it’s worthless,

you’re overreacting, you’re stupid, you’re fat, you’re ugly and the only way you can change things is to buy our product” that isn’t going to work.

The wrinkles aren’t going to go away, you don’t have to look

like you’re twenty years old again.

That 200$ face cream is a scam, don’t you understand?

My gender makes up 51% of the population,

yet we are underrepresented in the media and the government.

Abortion is legal, get the fuck over it, 

and quit trying to block my access to effective contraceptive.

If you want to reduce the amount of abortions being performed,

then give women a safety net, we’re not going to raise our children 

in poverty and does anyone really want to be dependent on welfare checks?

How about some more high paying jobs? They don’t exist

thanks to the legal greed I discussed earlier. And if they’re hiring

then you had better be willing to face skepticism from your peers

on whether or not you can raise your daughter and make a livable wage.

“Women just can’t have it all.”

No, we can’t because there’s no support for us in this awful world,

equality does not exist because parents in India are killing their daughters,

women in Ireland die because their dead fetus still has a heartbeat

and their blood is poisoned with the hatred of a billion people

who want to control us, poison our minds just like her blood,

tell us we’re not good enough, use us, abuse me, mistreat us,

violate, degrade, rape and defame us.

Don’t vote for us because you think our wrinkles are ugly

and our pant-suits unsexy?

Don’t tell me I’m not good enough because I know better.

I’m sick of telling myself that I have to apply myself to those standards.

I do not, nor will I ever weigh 110 pounds.

I am good enough. I am smart, I’m strong and hard working.

I get good grades and I am equal competition for a man in the labor force.

I’m a good driver, I don’t think about what my wedding is going to be like,

rather how I’m going to work my ass off to see what the world has to offer me.

I am not stupid, I am not silly, I will overcome your oppression 

and turn you inside out.

 

So don’t tell me I can’t do this, I can’t be that

instead I have to do this, be that.

Fuck that, I do what I want,

and you know what else?

Fuck the GOP,

fuck Daniel Tosh and his awful rape jokes and sexist humor,

fuck your calendars with girls in bikinis modeling on cars,

any person that kidnaps a child, whether a boy or a girl

and keeps them in cages, breaking their spirit with rape and abuse

so they won’t run away when they’re sold on the street, they can go to hell,

and if you’re religion tells you that I am your property,

burn it, reject it, tell the clergy and the pope that I will not have my reproductive freedom limited because his imaginary god tell his so.

I am my own master

and I will not shut up.

For Girls Like Me

Because I wanted to feel real,
because I wanted to get dirty,
because I didn’t think there was anything wrong
with working your ass off
in a way that most people would find
demeaning,
embarrassing,
I took the job.

Because I wanted to be explored,
because I didn’t mind being locked in that tiny room
with only a flickering light bulb
for company,
to stimulate me,
I agreed to answer your questions.

What I didn’t agree to,
or give my consent to
was this overwhelming feeling
of neglect.
Don’t you dare just sit there
and look at that other girl.
I’m right in front of you,
offering myself in the form
of someone who will always be too short,
who will never make the right first impression,
second best, even third or fourth.
Why can’t I be the best at something?

Because I wanted to impress you,
I opened myself up.
Because I wanted to feel wanted,
I turned myself inside out.
Because sometimes the only way to truly be clean
is to go outside, be naked if you have to
and roll your body in the mud and dirt,
leave lasting marks on your skin that some might find
ugly,
ireperable.
That’s the only way you can be real.
Remove the standard of beauty and leave behind
the raw, the tainted, the unsmiling,
the opressed woman who only wants to be beautiful
but she can’t because it’s impossible to be
truly beautiful in a world where true beauty
is only determined by what you look like when you wake up in the morning.

What about her face
when she holds her newborn baby?
What about the skin across her stomach,
once flat and appealing to your standards,
now stretched and scarred?
Is that a sacrifice? Or is it a reminder
of the love she carried inside her
for nine to ten months?

I want to stomp out your perfect eyes,
and set fire to your perfect lips,
I hate your perfect face and what it means
to girls like me.
I hate your profile pictures
and everyone who comments on them.
I hate everyone who tells you you’re beautiful.
Why do you have to publicize it?
Why does my confidence have to wane
when you step into a room?
I want to smash into you,
I want to destroy you.
But I don’t hate you,
how could I hate anything
as beautiful as you.
I want to ruin you,
you need to be brought down to my level,
you need to see the world from five feet
and four inches above the ground,
when your clothes don’t fit right,
and people’s eyes just pass over you.
Don’t tell me I’m beautiful,
don’t you dare say it!
I’m not there, I never will be,
I’m the epitome of average,
where is my exception?

Because I need validation!
Because I needed a paycheck,
because the world will always be against girls like me,
because you’re so fucking perfect and everyone loves you,
I took the job.

WTF IS THIS SHIT.

Spending an evening as an old lady, I began to feel confused, tired and old. At the hour of 12, I found I desperately wanted to go home and sleep. This is my first blog and no one is reading it. So who am I writing to? For now I am writing to the green stripe on my computer that doesn’t actually exist. Let’s see how long this thing lasts.

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