I crucified my hate and held the word within my hand
There’s you, the time, the logic, or the reasons we don’t understand
There is a hatred in me running deep poisoning my ability to rest with peace when my head hits the pillow. I wish I could nail the hate to a cross and watch it die. Quick death. Slow death. I don’t care as long as it dies.
I blink. I blink again. I see myself nailed to the cross with spikes made out of my own hate. My hate crucifies me. It’s a hate born of betrayal, a hate stoked by the knowledge that I have been taken advantage of, beguiled, blackmailed into sacrificing part of my future.
Sometimes, I wonder, if my hate is directed inward because I let myself be manipulated by a succubus. Repeated encounters with a succubus results in the deterioration of health or mental state, or even in death. Now I understand why it is myself I see nailed to the tree.