November 14, 2008
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This is private.

When I hear it, I am an eavesdropper.

This is like when you catch your mom crying in her room about some serious
grown-up thing, all alone.

This is something I cannot understand.

This is anger I can see but never feel.

This is sadness I cannot comfort, or know.

There is a history here I do not get.

Because right here, there's hate, real hate.

Not tired, petty hate that comes and goes,

Hate that only exists when you feel bad, or when you need

something to get riled up about

Not half-forgotten hate, halfassed hate you bring up with a sigh.

This is vibrant hate, living ate, deserving hate.

Not one person or thing, but a whole lifetime of insults.

Hate with no direction or goal, but a leftover feeling that won't go away.

It's injustice, and it's wrong, but the feeling is red hot.

It's a hate deserved, not even a poisonous, snaky hate but honest shouted

for uncontrollable, inexplicable bull.

I can't feel it. No one I truly know does, or ever will.

Nothing I know comes close to the death, abandonment, and loss.

All I can do is hear words with each syllable a sarcastic,

booming insult.

Words backed up with hurt and bile, and vitriol.

And try to wonder what it must be like.

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