A kind of love

I hate my writings.
I hate myself.
It is the purest hate,
pure like the morning sun, and
fresh like a bleeding cut
drawn at the wrist —
a cheap Topaz blade for blood.
It is the purest hate,
the love of the Devil.
A love still, nonetheless.

— Caliban sees himself in a writing.

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
November 7, 2016