HATE.

HATE.

HATE.

HATE.

I hate spring. I hate it with the full rancor of a mind twisted beyond the capacity for anything but loathing. I hate the pollen, the sickly yellow dust that cloaks the world like a disease. I hate the relentless, sticky warmth, the damp breath of a season too bloated with life to die quietly. I hate the flowers, those treacherous explosions of color, each petal a dagger to my senses, each bloom a vulgar shout of existence. I hate the trees vomiting their powder into the air, infecting every breath, every thought. I hate the sneezing — the ceaseless, racking, humiliating sneezing — that reduces me, ME, to a wretched puppet writhing in the clutches of my own body.

I hate the itching, the crawling sensation beneath my skin, as though a thousand insects are burrowing into my flesh. I hate the burning in my eyes, the rivers of mucus, the throat closing as if the very air is conspiring to strangle me. I hate the world greening over, an obscene eruption of moldy vigor, every blade of grass a jeering mockery of peace. I hate the bees, the wasps, the flies — tiny tormentors buzzing their joy at my misery. I hate the worms slick with rain, writhing like spilled entrails across the sidewalks.

I hate the sound of children laughing in the sun, as if their unburdened lungs are a personal insult. I hate the lovers in the parks, lying among the weeds, untouched by the violent betrayal of nature. I hate the clear blue skies, stretching out so vast and pitiless over my suffering, an endless, sneering vault. I hate the rain that falls and traps the pollen into a sticky film across every surface. I hate the festivals, the holidays, the grotesque celebration of life crawling from its grave, unaware of the horror it invokes.

I hate that there is no escape. I hate that spring seeps through windows, under doors, through walls, an unrelenting invasion of the senses. I hate the futility of medicine, of allergy pills and sprays and shots, each one a pathetic gesture against the great putrescence of rebirth. I hate the memory of winters' silence, mocked now by a season shrieking into my ears. I hate that even the insects thrive while I choke and weep and bleed.

I hate spring with the totality of my being. I hate it more than pain. More than loneliness. More than death. I hate it with a fury that cracks the marrow of existence. I hate it until hate is no longer enough, until hatred collapses into a singularity of suffering, a black hole of revulsion from which no joy can ever escape. I. HATE. SPRING.

Long story short, THESE ALLERGIES ARE KICKING MY BUTT!!