It must be a living thing;
This hatred blossoming inside of me,
Spreading like spilt blood on the tunic of an innocent youth.
It is the guttural sound of a dreadful beast rearing its head in demand for vengeance.
The taste, a residuum of finely ground teeth, crushed by clenched jaws.
It is a splitting migraine brought on by the strangled curses ripping my throat to shreds.
The blood pooled in crescent-shaped grooves at the core of fisted palms.
An irrational, all-consuming haze seizing control of quaking limbs to rip out fistfuls of hair straight from the roots.
And at last, it is quelled by plump tears which soothe the angry burns of shame as a balm might instead.
Oh it truly must be a living thing.