Our hate lives in my art (p1)

I keep my hatred dressed in rhyme, each curse converted, line by line. What I feel bleeds raw and true, what I mean dissolves in view. I name the venom, call it craft, let ugliness be cut and laughed. They praise the trick, how bile turns sweet, how rot learns rhythm, ploy seems neat. The thicker the frame, the crueler the cut, thin minds etch echoes, of what they mutter. A rule I run, then rot, then vow, again, again, I kneel to grow. If I go clean, if they cauterize, does language starve or I get sterilize? Or do I drift so far from here that mirrors dull and drop their sneer? I squint at a self I failed to keep, my past a smear I scratch to sleep. I say I don’t care. That’s rehearsed. Others’ relief keeps me conversed. Saint or sinner, god or crowd, their quiet nod keeps my life allowed. I once kept all my softness in a bear, pink fur, a stand-in, something less fair. When urges rose I couldn’t name, I crushed it slow and called it tame.