Hate Is a Four-Letter Word

“ripped apart” couldn’t begin to describe the moment

when you realized the world isn’t fair or in your favor—

at least in the realm of the superior crowd making

you believe that you’re lesser than they are,

more a construct than a living, breathing person

the signs are all there—the turns of phrase,

the laughter between words, the poison dripping—

and they act as if it’s all right, just a gag, lighten up—

like you’re too sensitive in a wave of cancel culture

that makes all the comments blow up online

but you see how the anger rises, defenses heightened,

because no one likes to be called [insert word here]

even though their actions tell more than words ever can

(because people often don’t realize they’re liars,

even to themselves, and so the cycle continues)

even the conversations you think are innocuous

can lend to a darker tint under the light of day,

and it’s gotten to the point where no headline

even surprises you anymore, no matter how grim

but even if the answers were simple, if they were kind,

you have abandoned most faith in humanity to fall

in line for the sake of each other (your neighbor,

your coworkers, your community, your people)

because even wearing a damn mask was too hard

the news blares on, counting up the dead and

the homeless and the hungry and the mentally ill

and the forlorn and the destitute and the, the, the—

there are too many, there are too many—

all while preaching in ways that will never work

all you can do on your own is get out of bed,

go off the grid for a while, make your donations,

call the people who supposedly represent you

(and often millions of others), and try not to let

the heartbreak and disappointment lead the way

“healing”—that’s a nice word to smother smoke,

but you can’t make friends with the people who

already look at you as if you’re the enemy

(as if you’ll always be the enemy)—

you wish it were truth, but so far it’s just talk