Cycle of Hate

by Lizzie DesRuisseau

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I let existence be my bane.

Lay me to rest and torch my crest:

My legacy, if not the best,

be none.

The sound of crackling linen

Is a hymn to the bedridden.

Myself I’ve lost, cannot be found,

I’m gone…

Burn this husk then to the ground.

I can’t attain, myself I blame,

I feed the flame and blaze in shame.

Deed done.

Tongues of fire become waves of pain.

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My chest crushed from the water weight,

My throat choked by tears I create –

I inhale, but it’s airless.

I can’t swim to the surface.

I don’t flounder in the deep, I wait.

Will breath return? It feels too late.

As I sink from the sparkling rays of egress,

I watch dying sunlight fall into the abyss.

Don’t let me suffocate.

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I sit cocooned from reality in my despair.

Does it miss me? I hope it cares.

My skin smoldering,

My lungs gasping,

I ask “Why?” then grow tired of asking…

The web draws tighter,

I cannot resist –

I’m not a fighter.

I don’t live, I subsist.

My hair mats and greases,

My skin pales and sags,

My thoughts fall to pieces,

My clothes become rags.

I’m charred, waterlogged, in abominable state;

I berate myself and start to disintegrate.

And so continues the cycle of hate.