Is it slavery that inspires such bitter hatred in me? No of course not. Do not be so narrow minded and simple.

I do not hate her. I hate the dreams I built around her that were not based on her reality. Spun with some kind of mist inspired by my own desires and needs. I placed her on a pedestal that was not for her ... and she fell without any beauty or grace.

Her wings ripped from her flesh leaving ragged holes in my memory of her. It is not she .. herself ... that brings the bile to rise in my throat. It is my own broken and shattered visions stitched so closely to my heart that when they were rent from me they caused a bleeding that still leaves my soul ichor drenched and cold.

So far from hating slavery, it is more in fact that I am more comfortable with it than with free women. At least a slave is honest with herself and with the men in her life. She does not live behind a veil of the unknown. There is no guessing who and what she is. She hides nothing, owns nothing. She is simply what she is.

A free woman can be one of two things. A slave in disguise. Or the pristine sanctum of womanhood that every man desires for his companion. It is the guesswork involved that I have had done with.

No I do not hate her. I hate the mockery made of what I built for her. I despise my vision quartered and pieced out to every hungry voracious pit. Pulled asunder and devoured by the uninspired ... the masses ... the normal deaf, dumb and mute scavengers of life.