Our Worstness

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.