I hate how you all feel nothing and have your subconscious eyes on me.
I hate that you all didn’t stop it so I hate all your causes.
I hate how I feel. I hate how I think because of how I feel—because of what my body now decides because of long ago.
I hate that it works like this but that no one accepts it. I hate feeling alone with perverse, tolerant understanding, which only feels this way when paired with hopelessness, which feels arrogant along with infantile.
I hate that I can’t be reactionary, that I don’t want to speak my mind even as I know it would relieve some pain temporarily.
I hate how I think you look at me, because I am not there: I only think it because of how I feel.
I hate that someone else may understand without thought but they cannot fully discuss it.
I hate the web I have made over my experience most seconds and that I cannot unpick it.
I hate that I despise my own poetry because of whatever I have absorbed.
I hate that I might never unpick it either.
The line breaks and hanging line indents may be incorrectly formatted because I cannot be bothered to fiddle with the HTML. View the correct formatting in the full collection To a Blind Horse (and subscribe at the top of the page).
ashley dunn 
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