An Everyday Scourge

I don’t hate anyone, he cries, looking up at her.
She wears her golden robe,
taking the steps that lead to his level.
Thousands of years,
still her children cannot see,
the time has come for some truth-telling.


My son-of-sons, she says, kneeling before him, as any caring mother would,
the opposite of love is not hate,
have you seen hate’s form in the lives you represent?


Hate, like love, is fire,
gentle or bold,
simmering or ablaze,
they are twins, you see;
potent in birth and death,
as you surely noticed,
motivating you to serve, defend and protect.


Love stirs pain at the sight of pain, hate stirs satisfaction for the same.
Love asks while hate commands,
they are too similar to stand far apart.


My little wonder, she says, adoring his buried innocence masked in sin,
the opposite of love is not hate,
how can it be?
Far worse rules that domain.
Colder than ice, I assure you, my sweet,
a gaping hole that grows wide is love’s sworn enemy.


The boy trembles at the thought, reaching for her comfort.
She lets him hold her around the neck, squeezes him close for extra protection.


The opposite of love, she whispers in his ear,
is indifference, my sweet.
Yours to be exact.
Your silence, my darling,
your emptiness inside,
a creeping death of the love I gave you before you left.


You sit in a circle of friends who look and sound like you.
You say, they should all be killed,
cleared off the land claimed by another,
they don’t deserve to be free, you say,
to which your friends largely agree.


Men say, no, not them, in boardrooms, trade unions,
in recruitment and promotions.
Their locked doors, rules and practices,
hidden behind smiles.
Their preference for a mirror image lurking,
under claims of merit-driven lifestyles.


When girls lie, use and cheat.
When boys objectify, ignoring consent.
When micro-needled skin and inflated lips hold more value,
than wrinkled hands and faces.
While blonde is a political statement,
rather than a shade for all races.


When popularity trumps integrity,
when profit sustains poverty,
when us is not them,
I not you,
Indifference, my boy, is the shadowy plain that lies between your goodness,
oxygen to your evils,
a wretchedness,
self-serving and sustaining,
a poison, remaining.


Answerable to no one, without wisdom,
or end.
What is hate, my son,
compared to spiritual devastation?
Wars,
famine,
a withering planet,
rape,
exploitation,
control and domination.


They are not us, indifference declares.
She is not a proper woman.
He is not a worthy man.
The poor are called a problem,
the stateless desperate, even more.


Not me, indifference spews, a nose curved in disgust.
But to share is to lose, the little boy pouts,
his worry constricting his throat.
To win is to be free, he lets out,
and at once, she knows he believes.
She sees her boy fully this time,
how these thousands of years have taught him so little.


Lost and afraid,
torn up inside,
she takes him by the shoulders,
steadying him against the storm,
the inner battle between shadow and light.
What has indifference cost you, baby?
She looks him deep in his eyes:
blue,
brown,
green,
grey,
of no matter, except to him and those he considers his kind.


For centuries, you have used this inner death to your advantage,
spinning on an axis of torment and self-gain,
a power self-directed and self-made.
You live in constant spiritual terror,
you must see,
pouring suffering onto a world that,
I made clean and green.
Destroying my precious pearl,
without concern for your own demise.


This is the moment, she thinks,
she has to say,
My beloved,
my last hope,
look unto me,
see what I see.
The opposite of love was never hate,
you were wrong,
and it’s not too late.
Love’s antonym is nothingness,
an endemic, internal nothing.


Love’s opposite is your failure to feel,
being numb to your own destruction.


Mother and son stand in silence,
he knows what she says is true.
His isolation,
his fear of losing,
the thirst for immortality,
an urge to control,
the time-frozen comfort he believes he is owed,
an endless game of conquering at any price.


There’s never enough for her boy, her most prized creation,
no pain worth honoring to its fullest.
Rather, he chooses an endless performance,
of decorative words and gestures,
in great halls,
wearing dapper suits,
in front of rows of important faces,
Inside dwells the same mess keeping him trapped and alone.


I won’t survive, he finally admits,
pain streaming down his cheeks.
She pulls him in, hugging him tight,
kissing him on his soft cheek.
No, you won’t, his mother says,
you will thrive,
but first, my cherub, my most precious love,
you will have to let go of winning to stay alive.