The Wreckages of a Storm

The cries of Ezekiel echoed along with the howls of the wolves in the far distance. The moon was bright enough to illuminate his torment. The light of the wood fire cast a red hue all over his face and chest, it was as if he had an open wound. It could have been the way he was feeling inside as if he was bleeding from an emotional wound that no one else sees. I don’t know how it feels like to be in his position; for love to turn into hate. A collision of polar emotions in seeing someone you love being in such pain that you could only hate them.

I don’t know how it feels like to be in his shoe, to experience a romantic love so strong that it breaks you. But I know how it feels like to hate yourself, to blame yourself to the extent that you project it to someone else. I am mad at these blood drinkers and I am mad at everything that ever happened. It was as if I am only waiting for perfect triggers to expel the hatred I have inside of me. But it all boils down to my hate toward