Hate is the belly of all emotion.
You feed its hunger by launching yourself into the red zone that looks and feels a lot like lava: it is satisfied with a punch.
It's an infrequent, but not obsolete, feeling that is surprisingly a lot like love; it has the same red cheeks and sweaty palms, the dizzying sense of reality that comes with knowing a person all too well.
Hate is bitter, but not without remorse.
Soon, it wraps its warm arms around you so you close in on yourself, feeling guilty and guiltier still.
As you fall deeper into its trap of contempt and derision, you explore other, shadowy parts of yourself; parts that distort your thinking.
When you fall into this part of yourself, it seems inescapable, but it is. Somewhere else the hunger for love and ease arises, away from the acidic pit you were lost in.
You recover from your burns, and the roaring begins to subside.
