I hate you.
Not the casual, fleeting kind,
not the kind that fizzles out
after a bad day or a sharp word.
No, I hate you
in the way that fills every corner of me,
in the way that feels like a wound
that won't stop bleeding,
even though I'm the one
holding the knife.
I hate you for how much I cared,
for how much of myself
I handed over
freely, stupidly
thinking you'd hold it close,
thinking you'd keep it safe.
But you didn't.
You crushed it,
twisted it,
left it out in the cold
like it meant nothing.
I hate you for the nights I spent
wondering what I did wrong,
for the hours of self-doubt,
for the voice in my head
that still whispers,
Maybe you weren't enough.
I hate you for making me believe
that I was the problem
when it was you all along
selfish, careless,
always looking for someone new
to break.
I hate you for the lies you told,
for the way you rewrote our story
and handed it to others
like it was the truth.
What did you say about me?
That I was too much?
Too needy?
Too broken?
You painted me the villain,
but you were the one
with the brush in hand.
I hate you for how easily
you moved on,
how quickly you replaced me,
like I was a placeholder,
a stepping stone
to something better.
I see you now,
with her,
with them,
smiling like nothing happened,
like I never mattered.
And yet
I hate you most
because part of me still cares.
Because part of me still misses you,
still aches for the friendship
I thought we had.
I hate you because you left a hole
I can't quite fill,
no matter how hard I try.
I hate you because I can't stop
wondering if you ever look back,
if you ever feel a twinge of regret,
or if I've already disappeared
from your mind,
just another name,
another memory
you've buried.
I hate you because I wish
I could forget you
as easily as you forgot me.
But I can't.
So instead,
I hate you with everything I have.
It's the only piece of you
I still own.
