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.
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