I hate that I don’t know what to say and I don’t know how to say it.
I hate that I am not over this and that I still think every day of you and him.
I hate that I stick out my stomach and gaze at the reflection in the mirror of the girl who knew no better.
I hate that I called him on purpose last week because I was sad at what you had written although I pretended it was on accident and fooled no one, not even myself.
I hate that it bothers me that we never actually got to talk about what mattered.
I hate that I still want to talk to him.
I hate that I never actually said what I wanted to him because I thought biting my tongue was the better thing to do.
I hate that although it might have been, it still leaves me three years later feeling the same sense of worthlessness.
I hate that my insecurities have caused me to feel threatened by something that never was or will be again.
I hate that no matter the feeling, I contradict it with another.
I hate that I will not let myself play the victim– let myself hurt and heal from what has passed for fear of giving away my strength.
I hate that because of my stupid touchy feely degree in human communications, I shoulder more of the burden that I would ever wish on someone else.
I hate that I dreamt of him last night and as he yelled at me, I couldn’t think of the words to defend myself.
I hate that understanding my past might be the only way to accepting my future.
