i've still got the burns

this happy hope, living in my mind, teasing me with what might be, what i lost and what i might get back, all the while clouding my reason, making me believe in myself as i walk towards another cliff.

i hate hope, i despise it with a loathing that borders on visceral,

waiting for it to walk back into the squalid place where i hide with its scents of flowers 

and its rays of sunlight. 

waiting here with a wooden bat pierced through with rusty nails.

waiting for that bastard hope to dare to enter.