Hateβ
hate is a gentle thing.
It does not linger to gnaw,
does not chase with teeth.
It keeps its distance,
yet teaches you to see,
to protect, to survive.
It is the clarity in shadow,
the hand that points without striking,
the quiet pulse that reminds you what you are worth,
and what you need.
But loveβ
Love is a mean thing.
It scratches at walls,
at the corners of your mind,
whispers in the dark where no one dares to look.
It lingers in the quiet,
in the space where laughter once lived.
Even in decay,
it curls around you,
pressing its weight gently against your chest,
reminding youβ
alwaysβ
that once, you were held,
and you were wanted,
and you were everything.
πππππππππππ€ 