The Misogynist

Somewhere within me, there is a genuine hatred of women. It surfaces in moments of beauty and nostalgia. A disgust, repulsion even. In the same moments there is a reverence for my mother as the only divinity I am willing to acknowledge. And then there's the lust. Love for the flesh of another, a burning for entwinement. A longing. An infatuation for passion, the igniting of a flame by the wax of her body and the wick of my loins. A spark is all we need. Fire doused with disgust. It’s only when I dissimulate from emotions and immerse myself in her that I feel at peace. When I stand in reverence of beauty, basking in the sunlight of existence, I cannot bear the sight of loving a woman. Seeking comfort in whores, and for the briefest of moments confuse immortality for love. It’s in their arms I fancy myself a poet, and a knight - and now is the time for Thomas, now is the time for Blake.