anatomy of hate

I take the blade like a sculptor takes his chisel— not for art, but for erasure. Skin is too quiet. It wears my face like a mask I never chose. So I slice, deep enough to silence it, to watch it speak in red. Each cut a sentence. Each bruise a thought I couldn't hold. I dig through muscle and memory trying to find what part of me deserves forgiveness— but all I find is rot. Nails tear at the surface when the blade dulls. Teeth, fists, anything to feel my hatred echo through blood. This is not performance. This is penance. This is punishment for waking up in a body I never asked for. They say: “Don’t hurt yourself.” As if it’s hurt. As if it’s not relief to open myself and let the poison breathe. I mutilate because I can’t kill what’s inside. So I tear down the walls again and again and again. Not to die— but to make the pain visible. To show the world what it did to me. To make it real. To make me real. If only for a moment before the blood dries and the shame returns wearing my name like a crown.