Hate You?

Hate you? No, I don’t hate you. I just hate who I become around you— Desperate for your attention, twisting cruelty into affection. Because who am I if you don’t know me? If you haven’t spent sleepless nights wondering why I’m such a to you? You hating me is better than you forgetting me. At least then, I exist— etched into your tortured screams, a whisper in shattered glass, scraping against a dull chalkboard. Yes, it hurts— but not as much as being ignored. Vengeful eyes burn into mine. I don’t want to be this way, but I’ve forgotten any other way to be. Be kind? Be soft? Sounds simple, right? No. Not when I don’t remember how. I spent so long teaching myself to hate you that I forgot how to love you.