Anger in a Straitjacket is Still Anger

Caution: do not induce hatred.

It will probably make its appearance sans invitation, anyway.

I hate you, and you, and you, and you. Normally this would become a list with all your individual sparkles: the raven’s wing hair slapping against my unheard appel, the Southeast Asian valley swooped by ravenous remarks which eat mine for appetizers, the clover-shaped table of fools conferencing about why we should all jump down a small well.

But I don’t make lists about people who no longer retain any hope of resurfacing in my book of unhatred. My okay zone. It usually lasts about a month. Shorter for attractive guys, not that any of you are attractive (but you’re certainly short, and that in more than merely stature.)

You have all lost your chances. Like the earth, there were many, but the fields have been scarred the nth time and have ceased to bubble up with bright flowers; she keeps her blood to herself, but oh how it does boil under the surface, waiting for a chance to subduct.

Looking forward, I beg the next person I meet to do so halfway. I will flower with the best of me – for I can give softness and long-wanted words and glittery nail designs – but you will have to precious my flower just one tad. Just like you would for anyone who was worth it. A taste of water, a touch of light, and not the eternal trampling of ignorance. Ignored, my flower will rot and stink up your blip of geologic time.

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