The utter hell of it all

 The hatred is well and burning within me. 

Hatred for people who - even when I give the last shred of my soul to them - will turn their back to me as if nothing world-changing happened. 

I hate this. They are insincere, I say. And their problem arises from never having been sincere enough in their life to recognize my sincerity.

Women have done this to me more times than I care to tell. I can give and give and give, and those women will take and take and take and never give back.

They take the man who earns more or the man who has the big abs. They take what feels good, not what  is good. And they are trash to me.

Hatred is good, I say. It separates me from what is bad. It separates me from all the meaningless people who walk the earth and from meaninglessness itself.