i thought i knew hate like the back of my hand
i thought i had drank of its waters
and swam in its surly silty shore,
i thought i had gorged myself on hatred,
thought myself gluttonous for wrath, for rage
thought i’d bruised my smooth skin enough to know
what hatred really meant, and what it stood for

then i saw the face of the bastard who hurt you

and saw my hate was a halloween costume
and that i was playing at the real thing, trying on
a crude makeshift mockery of hatred, strutting
as if i held the monopoly on hatred,
as if i alone knew the bloodtrail loathing,
the livid-glint-of-Lucifer’s-eyes loathing
the this-is-the-last-time-they-hurt-me loathing

it was nothing compared to
this-is-the-last-time-anyone-hurts-you

i will make it true

no one’s ever hated anyone
like i hate the bastard who hurt you