What Hate Is
by Elizabeth Anderson
It is a frail and fractured creature, standing on uneven ground, that cries out in the night as it dreams of terrible horrors.
It is a broken music box, chords brittle and broken, dancing on the shards of a bloody mirror.
It is an accident, blinded by terrible greed, drunk on lies and sorrow, falling fast onto a road paved with misery.
It is a bleached out desert, pale and desperate, cracking at the edges while a hot sun beats constantly down on it.
It is a fungus that grows on the most innocent of children and the blackest of souls, poisoning each breath they take.
It is many things, and it is all things, and it is nothing.
It is beautiful, and it is horrible.
It is itself.
It is a broken music box, chords brittle and broken, dancing on the shards of a bloody mirror.
It is an accident, blinded by terrible greed, drunk on lies and sorrow, falling fast onto a road paved with misery.
It is a bleached out desert, pale and desperate, cracking at the edges while a hot sun beats constantly down on it.
It is a fungus that grows on the most innocent of children and the blackest of souls, poisoning each breath they take.
It is many things, and it is all things, and it is nothing.
It is beautiful, and it is horrible.
It is itself.