“I hate him. I cannot stand him,” she says, but she follows
this up with a quick “i’m sorry, Cassandra.” I am startled

but then the realization konks my brain, like most realizations
typically need to, and it strikes me with no uncertainty
that she is apologizing to me for expressing hatred.
Hatred seems to me a greatly incompatible phenomenon
that must crumble beneath the cross of Christ. Hatred
has whispered death into my ears, to the point that I now know
that His Life Abundant cannot coincide with any sort of
hatred for any sort of person. My God, my soul asks,
how can I hold my so-called Love for You in one hand
while strangling the life out of someone with the other?
For is this not what hatred is–a noose around the neck
of its recipient?
God, let me be such a beacon of Love that those around
me feel uncomfortable to express hatred when I am nearby!

I struggle, because try as I might, I cannot structure
this poem in such a way that it sounds beautiful,

much like hatred.

The End

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