The People We HateThe people who hurt us, do they feel like we do? Do they feel ugly and worthless in their skin like we do? When they ache are their thoughts a bruised purple-blue or are their brains always full of those rainbow-esque hues? Do they suffer with the things that we're going through? Or are they always indifferent to the sanity unglued?The People We Hate
Those people we hate, can we feel their pain? Do we know of their nail-biting sorrow and shame? Are we driven to cruelty by cruelty they gave? Or is rage bred within, in its own iron cage?
And why do we hate?- Because we're not the same? &nb
vacant.Look at her; she’s a porcelain doll with never-ending milk legs all stapled to the bed, thirteen years young with forty-eight years suffocating her figure. He’s right up to her baby lips, offering cigarette breath and grinding his stubble on her cheeks, it reminds her of gravel and she closes her eyelids as it falls across her neck, inhaling the cloud of dust.vacant.
The curtains are draped across the sky, dried blood red casting shadows she can’t tell the ends of. A dim flicker of a light and maybe a filter of moonshine illuminate the crevasses of his eyelids, forehead and awry mouth. His skin tastes of sweat and earth.
