Hate, that shy bruise beneath the cheekbone
—soft as a mother’s sigh—
it hums lullabies to old wounds,
presses linen over rage’s mouth
& teaches fury to whisper.

love, meanwhile,
wears its shoes on the wrong feet,
bleeds through the wallpaper,
asks—please—
forgiveness (again).

they meet sometimes in a hallway of mirrors—
hate smoothing its skirt,
love chewing its nails—
and in the glass, their faces splice:
a child —half shadow, half sunbeam—
its eyes a question no one answers.
In its palms, two seeds: one bitter, one sweet,
and it plants them both in the same soil.

Years later, the roots knot together,
indistinguishable beneath the loam.
The blossoms lean toward each other,
confused by their own fragrance,
by the way beauty can sting,
by the way cruelty can weep.

And so the child grows quiet,
learning that mercy wears a scar,
that tenderness keeps a blade in its sleeve,
that every embrace is a negotiation
between breaking and being broken.

Still—when dusk hums low,
and the air smells of rain and repentance—
love and hate return to that hallway,
and bow, like weary dancers,
each taking the other’s trembling hand.

:: 10.16.2025 ::