Hate Song

If I could break your neck, I would.
My abstract mind is an unending alleyway of bitterness, resentment, and screeching pain;
I hate and I hate and I hate. The universe is narrowed to a pinpoint,
a tiny spherical cell in which I lie like a fetus, trapped.
You might see me walking down the street, but really I'm there,
and as you see me I am rage personified,
a giant ball of misanthropy squashed, like too many clothes in a suitcase,
into a human form. If I could beat you to death I would do so, happily,
snappily singing my own jaunty song. I used to
dream about beating my father to death, or teachers, or siblings,
or peers, or anyone who exerted authority over me.
Pain equals hate, and hate equals rage. I am a monster
in a blasphemous tribal mask, and I would boil the flesh from your bones.