I hate men. I hate men as I hate the winter. It is cold and dreary and terribly lonely once you’re within its silver grasp, but from afar, it looks magnificent. It looks bold, and promises of festivities and gold and things that the summer lacks. But it is once you’ve gone too close, too far in, you see the chill rise up and get stuck in your bones, your skin turns a sickly grey and the winter, it makes you sick. It makes you stare cautiously at the ice that threatens to crumble and the plummeting climate wondering if you will ever see spring again. I hate men. They are fickle, silly and terribly small. In the end, all men are boys. All men look for mothers in all their loved ones, all men crave comfort that they can dismiss, all men want power and strength but only to burn buildings and wage wars and shit on everything that is good, all men play god but what a terrible god he plays. So small and weak and scared that they crush all things weaker, swindle all things true and sit high on their mighty thrones, made of nothing but false gold and flattery. You see, you cannot be a good king unless your land is prosperous. Look at this wasteland, look at these woman, the mothers that bore you, the daughters you had, the sisters you shared beds with, look at their sadness. Their hair long and unkempt, hiding their faces. It is silly though that you interpret their tears and loneliness for fears. It is silly that you think you have won. It is only shame they feel, shame and pity for sharing your blood. I hate men. They are unruly, cruel and are truly nature’s beasts. Looking for warmth in strange beds and between strange legs, drunk on a history of authoritarianism. What dreams do disturb these men? Perhaps it is none, as the only enemy they fear must be to lose. There really is no political splendour though in this world, or any suspense, in truth only one party has always won. Yours. But it is now, while I dream of blood and grief do I see that in these roles we play and places we hold, no king ever existed. It is in my darkest moments that I wish a hell did exist, only to reserve for you a seat after your passing. And from the heavens, each star is a dead queen, her eyes staring down as you burn.