Hate is a Strong Word

The air is unusually cold. The sun has no clouds blocking it, she should not be shivering.

Hair hangs over her eyes as she look down. Words are too complicated. There are too many words. Whenever she tries to explain how she feels, what had happened, and why it did it only comes out in a scream. Is that her brain shutting down?

There is no wind. Yet it is cold.

People misuse the word hate. She has never felt an emotion like this. It rakes through her veins with each painful beat of her dying heart. Her shallow breath comes out in whispers. This is true hate. Hate is both a beautiful and horrifying thing. Both gentle and harsh, cold and hot, living and dying.

She shivers again, hugging her knees closer.

It laughs. The hate laughs. The hate smiles, it jokes, it plays. It mocks, it glares. Hate is a cold thing. Her fingers curl into fists. They tighten, tighten, they are such a tight fist her knuckles have turned white, screaming in protest. She relaxes her hands, and takes a deep breath.

The air is cold. It slaughters her lungs.

She imagines dragging hate by the roots of it's power through the mud. She closes her eyes as she allows the hate to consume her, for only a moment.

It is cold. She is cold.