Hate Balloon

There was a time when I

hung on and wouldn’t let go,

thinking that this was it,

turned out I was wrong,

after all.

Tied to a string in the air,

holding it like it would save

me from the world out there.

 

With it,

I could do anything

and feel nothing,

but this grating,

grinding,

loathing

makes me feel so

superior,

and exposed

and alone.

 

Assuages my conscience

and my intellect.

Tricks me into

being okay

with violence,

and genocide,

and exterminating

those unlike me.

 

Hanging on

to my hate balloon;

you are never going to see

me without my screen.

It’s how I view this interlude,

keeps me feeling kind of safe.

 

If I don’t engage,

I can’t be hurt at all.

These are strange times

and I find that I am

without my little, black friend

hanging over my head.

 

So, pitch dark

and uncomfortable,

now I feel vulnerable

without my satellite

giving me a reason why

I don’t have to care,

why I don’t’ have to try,

why I don’t have to feel,

or even be alive.

 

Such a better view

without my hate balloon,

but it was so much easier

when I had an excuse.

Now,

what am I supposed to do?

 

HG – 2019