Hey fucker,

It's me. Remember? Of course, you do. How could you forget? You were in my closet, under my bed, beneath my stairs, behind me, and anywhere else you could wiggle your fear-mongering tentacles. But I was too smart for you. I found your weakness, and I told all my friends. Every. Single. One. I'm betting business slowed down after that, didn't it? Who knew, Lou Bega's, "Mambo Number 5", could thwart a demon? Who knew that Lou Bega was, not only, a kick-ass dance instructor, but also an exorcist? I sure-as-shit didn't. So, sing it with me, "Jump up and down, and move it all around. Shake your hands to the sound. Put your hands on the ground. Take one step left, and one step right. And one to the front, and one to the side. Clap your hands once. Clap your hands twice. If it looks like this, then you're doing it right."

Sincerely,

She who thwarts demons.

Today, I felt the unnaturalness of hate.

It was the decision of it,

The logical “if-then” of it,

The tidiness of it.

Love isn’t a choice,

It’s horribly inconvenient,

Often illogical or unconditional,

And it very rarely exists solitarily.

Hate is just hate.

A creation,

An artificial, manufactured,

Representation of our own worstness,

Masquerading as sincere emotion.

This ability to turn love and betrayal,

Disgust and fury,

Trust and shame,

Into things less emotionally taxing,

Is, both, impressive and disappointing.

Why deal in the actualness of the feelings,

When you can write them off as something other?

It’s a terminal distortion really,

A display so grotesque,

We’ve invested in its ugliness,

Indulged its deceitfulness.

We’ve even named it--

Allowed it its power:

Power to pervade.

Power to harm.

Power to inspire action on its behalf.

But I will not choose hate.

I will not encourage its claim to legitimacy.

I will allow myself to be angry,

I will allow myself to be sad,

And I will allow myself to be ashamed,

But I will not choose to twist,

Legitimate emotion,

Into something less-than.

I might cry,

I might scream,

I might shake my head or my fists,

But I will not choose to hate.

A victor by revision,

We’ll call it historical precision--

Each cut, a surgical incision.

Come children, hear the exposition,

Never mind, convenient omission,

Who needs facts, when you have sedition?

I hate to use the truth as ammunition,

But I have a supposition:

Perhaps, guilt is more than an admission.

I’m entirely too skeptical,

To be profound.

I know falling trees,

Will find the ground.

And, despite my absence,

They’ll still make a sound.

He wasn’t born bad.

It grew into him,

Like a parasitic shadow,

He wore like a second skin,

and eventually sunk in—

Stained his soul.

A symphony of strangers,

Always judging him.

They say he’s a worthless,

Good-for-nothing blip.

A malicious mantra,

That repeats in is head,

Tells him again and again,

To let the darkness in.

They wrote his ending,

Before he began.

You’re the architect of my insecurity.

Build me up, and watch me bleed.

I’ll play the object of all your scrutiny.

Size me up, and watch me sink.

One day I’ll be the perfect monstrosity.

Shoot me down where they can see.

I’m just a portrait for your curiosity.

So hang me up and let me be.

Pretty sure I’m dying.

Maybe I’m just histrionic.

Either way, I’m pretty sure it’s chronic.

Wait. Who am I talking to?

I thought that it was you,

But maybe I’m a schizo too.

The paranoia’s setting in.

Someone put me in the looney bin,

Before I go berserk again.

All this mixed emotion,

Let’s call it compulsion—

This undeniable notion,

That we all need a diagnosis.

So, it’s not the same.

Did you think it would be?

Sure, the blame game’s fun,

But now the bygones are gone,

And I think it’s safe to say

That the damage is done.

I’m not one to pick sides.

We’ve drawn our lines.

Now it’s time we walk them.

We’re just wasting time—

Yours and mine.

So, let’s put the pandering aside.

I could say I miss you.

But what good would that do?

Forever’s cruel.

Besides, Never looked better on me and you.

And, let’s be honest,

It’s not me, it’s you.