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Horror

HATE: A Love Letter

*Oysters? Diamonds? Conch Chowder? Spanish Fly? Amateurs.
Poetry? Flowers? Lingerie? Perfume? Pretenders.
The truest, most powerful aphrodisiac isn’t any of these – it is hate. Sex does not live in our heads or our hearts, sex lives in our bowels, in the dark spaces within and below. Sex resides in our loins where hate festers, masticating us from within until we explode in a rage of passion. I am hate. I was not born of God’s heart or spirit, but emerged from his mighty taint to expose the power of hate, to show that it is the envy of love. To love someone is to think of them three times, five times, ten times a day. To hate thim is to never have them out of your thoughts. To hate someone is to be smothered by them, overwhelmed by feeling, made alive by their very existence. Love can be cured by a slight, by gossip, by rumor, by a pair of socks left unhampered or a slip of the tounge at a dinner party. Love is fragile. Love is the lie we tell ourselves to make all the other lies manageable. Hate is pure, though. Hate endures against all logic, against all arguement, against any attempted reconciliation. Send me chocolates, I still hate you. Say you’re sorry, I still hate you. Fix what you have broken, I still hate you. And what is a more powerful, complete and devastating expression of hate than sex? Is there a better way to focus hate than to purify it in the places where it is most comfortable? Have sex with someone you love and then have sex with someone you hate, and then tell me which is more satisfying. Tell me who you would rather see vunerable, empty, weakened to their most base and animalistic, a lover or an enemy? I pity those that love me more than those that hate me because the haters feel what I feel. The haters see me as I see them. I am bound to the haters by experience. To hate me is to understand me, to understand me is to love me – and to be loved by me. My experience of what you call love is limited, and that love is poisoned by pain. Hate, though? I’m lousy with hate. Hate is where I live. Those that claim to not hate might as well claim to not breathe or eat or think. To exist is to hate. To be alive is to understand that “you” is the truest word and that the only way to join another is to connect with their hate of you and your hate of them. I hate because I seek connection with the world. I seek understanding, a shared experience, a brotherhood with man. I yearn to be hated, so please, hate me my loves. Hate me with all that you are. Climax with hate at the very thought of me and together we will see the world.
~the carver

3 replies on “HATE: A Love Letter”

i am in awe at the raw of this.
May I reblog without offending?
I feel hate all the time, but then you must know that.

Just beautiful

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