22:59 Aug 22 2025
Times Read: 39
A Toast to Your Rot
How sweet you looked when I first carved you
into the theater of my hunger,
a trembling rose in the coffin of the world.
I would have worshiped you forever
but you, little liar,
you dragged me through the glass.
Every smile you wore was acid in lace,
every whisper a serpent’s kiss.
I pressed my heart into your hands
like a chalice of black wine,
and you drank it down only to spit
the dregs into the dirt.
Do you know what it is
to have a soul stalk you?
To feel fangs on your throat in every shadow,
to hear my voice threading your dreams,
a lullaby of knives and spite?
I will show you.
I hate you
but not with the shallow hatred
of men who kick dust and walk away.
Mine is a cathedral of loathing,
stained glass dripping red,
choirs of jackals howling your name.
My hatred is immortal.
My hatred has fangs.
You will see me in mirrors,
in the static between stations,
in the fever that burns when you try to pray.
You’ll beg for silence,
but I’ll still be speaking,
each syllable a claw against your ribs.
You thought you could discard me
foolish, mortal creature.
But I am carved in obsidian patience,
a lover who never leaves,
a nightmare that keeps breathing.
The roses you left on my grave?
They rot with you now.
I fucking hate you.
I hate the way your voice lingers like poison,
I hate the ghost of your lips,
I hate that you ever dared
to imagine yourself divine.
You are carrion, and I am the crow,
singing rancid hymns above your bones.
And when your eyes finally crack open
in that coffin of silence,
when you scream into soil
and no god answers
know this:
it was never love I wanted to kill.
It was you.
Forever, and again,
with the patience of the grave,
I raise a glass of your ruin and whisper:
I fucking hate you.
And I always will.
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