Writers

The people I hate are writers, I carry them with irreplaceable hatred in my heart. I find it ironic and hysterical midnight laugh that my fists are bathed in their blood.

I repudiate them with the strength that remains in my bones. They are unclean in the form they come to write with dead words about the way their lovers left them wanting for more and unable to be understood by them.

I don't respect that they were never able to get caught in a square and let themselves be understood. The way they hated that people said they known them and that a friend and lover in them had.

In me, they have only an enemy, who turns their backs on them when their writings are screaming in a burned throat for someone to save them from the demons that are demanding the payment of their life.

Seeking help from me is a waste earned and warned. Since I don't like them from Monday to Sunday and from January to December, if they give me their poetry and their writings I will burn them in front of their eyes while I cry and spit on them.

Don't ask me why I will never give it to you. I'm as complicated as these assholes, as damned as them. That I will never tell you my real name or that of the boy who let me down.

I am one of those I hate.

T.A.