I don't hate people. I've never been programed to despise a person fully for a single thing I dislike. I don't know why. Everyone else seems to be able to.
Some crave the burning sensation you get in your gut. The rippling of your belly. The fire in their eyes when looking at someone whom they loathe.
I can't.
The boy who's locker rests near me.
That annoying kid in the back who thinks he has a right to judge my outfits.
The girl who gags at my words.
The teacher eyeing the drawings that decorate my arms.
It should be easy. They don't have the right to look at me and judge. To gawk and laugh and spit at me as I walk past. But then again, who am I to do the same.
The boy by my locker who yells, punches and dents the metal door everyday might have a horrible family.
The boy in the back might be insecure, searching to belittle me to boost his self confidence.
The girl who despises my mouth may be jealous that I'm actually saying what I mean.
They don't know that I learned the words I say, from my verbally abusive stepfather. They don't know I decorate my skin with dreams, attempting to cover the scars I've drawn their previously. I can't hate them for hating me.
I hate me too.
I hate how my clothes fit and the body that lays under them. I hate how the sharpie stings when I scrub it off in the shower, only to reveal ugly red slashes. I hate the words that leave my mouth, because they come from my lips, and my lips attach to my face, a face I hate. I hate the books I pull from locker in a sweet grasp at an alternate reality. I guess the only person I understand hating, is myself.
