Poetry

Hatefuck

By the moon, by my lord.

This is wrong.

Wrongest thing I've even felt.

Sick.

I hate you for it, for not knowing how you fuck me up.

It doesn't quite make me want life snuffed from your eyes, but it's cutting it close.

I wish I did just want you dead though, it would be easier than whatever this is,

degeneracy, gross obsession, hate devolving into some deep down perversion.

I'm not surprised that I'm like this, but I wish that I wasn't.

It doesn't even make any sense.

I should hate you.

You've got everything, gold, jewels, all the women you could want, a purpose in society, you can't possibly be going to bed questioning your place, can't be questioning if anyone loves you.

Can you?

I'd hit you if you were anyways, ungrateful fuck.

Sure, I'd break my fist on your skin, but it might be worth it, it'd be a good way of letting you know that I hate you.

Still, nothing about you manages to stop my mind from going where it shouldn't.

About how nice those hands look in those gloves.

They're nice, too nice. Are they smooth? That's a question keeping me up at night.

I want to hold them down, filthy as it sounds.

My god might have a problem with it, but my dreams struggle to care.

The way you flick your tongue on your fangs, bite your lip in thought, I can't keep it out of my thoughts, it's frustrating, sexually and normally.

Not that I'd want to relive that frustration, that'd make it worse.

Maybe it wouldn't though, stupid to entertain the possibility.

You'd never fuck anyone like me, and I'd never actually fuck you, even if I think about it until I'm gritting teeth and breathing hard.

I always think about stabbing myself afterwards, which helps, sometimes.

When it doesn't, I do tend towards thinking of stabbing you, but that's worse, and it means you're pretty justified in hating me, and I'd like that to be unjustified, so I can feel better about hating you more.

At this point, you know, I'd like to commit myself to one choice,

Hating or loving you.

But that's stupid hard.

Each choice has its issues.

I could bottle up the heated arousal, throw it down a mountain, and think up more reasons to hate you, beyond the general distrust between our species, of course.

It could be your hair? It's sort of greasy, and that's a bit gross. The fact that you're better looking than me? Well, no, thinking about anything to do with how you look is stupid, might make me think more about the general looking good, rather than how it pertains to me.

Is loving easier? I wouldn't think so.

That would Involve casting away the distrust, and paying attention to the gross bits.

Like how good your greasy hair looks, or how you actually seem sweet, if a bit rough around the edges, how those eyes are the most bloody beautiful thing I've seen since the god himself...

And that's sacrilege, no love either, it seems.

My lord, if you're listening to my internal monologue, which you're probably not, considering how useless I am.

Please, please get him and his hands out of my mind? And the hips too, maybe the personality while you're at it?

I've made up for failing like this before, and I could again, want someone to mutilate me again? Then will you make me hate him?

Argh, not even the lord of the moon could make me hate this man enough for the wanting to dissipate.

Fuck me, I'll be a filthy degenerate, forever unmarried, thinking of elves like him.

I'll just keep it to myself.

(Listen, the vulgarity and homosexuality has been missing from my poetry for far too long, and this was the result of that deprivation, you're welcome, or I'm sorry, depending on how much you enjoy vulgarity and homosexuality.)