A Dying Art

You hate me, but you dont even really know me.
I see the way you look at me,
all this wrath so misplaced,
it stains your short skirts.

I see you stretch your legs out and I laugh at their length.
Height would give you so much more personailty.
Short is selling you out.
Hate is doing it cheaply.

And you hate me so well.
I smirk.
Its the power of a smile that knows it all too well.
And you fumble with words,
and I drill you till you curl into a fetal position.
How do you look now sitting with your legs folded underneath you?
Fifteen.

I watch the way you hate me.
Classical and over stated.
I have been hated before,
with more grace
and less determination.

You are spewing your hate,
from your nose.
You are rattling yourself,
and I am perfectly composed.

I think I have come to the realization,
that hate can do no harm.
It is so loud an emotion,
that it carries no pains,
just the clatter and noise
of a dying art.