Hate,

“She doesn’t yet realize that love unreturned eventually transforms into a fierce tangled mess, nerves and entrails exposed like split animal innards. She doesn’t understand that sometimes the unrequited must demand reparations, that love can be a mean and spiteful process, that sometimes one loses patience with love. So, when the nerves and guts have seemingly been packed away, sewn in and cleaned up so as not to make all the innocent bystanders uncomfortable, the carrier of this love becomes heavy with a toxic lump that grows, slowly and steadily, into a fierce ball of scarred tissue.

Located two ribs below the heart, it is called hate.”

-Skinny, Ibi Kaslik

Time will never be a factor. This is how it’s going to be. Everything is starting to feel far away; a copy of a copy of a copy. The distance of everything, I can’t touch anything and nothing can touch me. Two ribs below my heart, the emotion festers and morphs, it tortures. But I don’t try to assuage it. I don’t have anything to lose anymore.