There’s a level of hatred, almost a skill.
To feel like the winter’s first bloom
(Small, alone in the frost) in the busiest room.
My phone emits steamtrain vibrations,
Memes, groupchats, “I love you”s.
(“Do you really?”, I think. I’m a cynical fool.)
To wield power, all power, to smile,
And to shine. But to hoard it in spite
Or your own tired mind.
Not even a selfishness in your embitterment,
Choosing, the choice well-presented,
To suffer, not grant yourself joy (and for free!)
It is something else,
To be achingly lonely because of yourself.