On hate

I’ve forbidden myself to feel, or at least I’ve allowed myself to fake it. Fake that I feel nothing when all I want to do is spew my guts out. I hate that people do that to me. I hate that I allow them to do so. I hate the fact that I have to fake indifference so you don’t use me anymore. That I have to stoop down to your emotional shallowness so I don’t drown in my own tears when your selfish hand pushes me underwater.

And yet I can’t hate you, and I hate it.

I’ve locked myself away in an iron bubble that reflects all your ersatz convictions. I hate that your silences mean more than your words. I hate that as a result I have to question every word you’ve ever said. I hate that you value honesty only when it suits you. I hate that memory has become a selective pool of all that elevates you, but when you come up for air you do so in silence. I hate the game, because it’s always rigged. Because the second I openly move my pawn, my king is already a captive, of all your words and all their absences.

I hate that my truth makes you afraid of yours.

But I love that I still smile when I think of you, that I don’t regret my words, that I know their meaning and walk around with all their weight on my shoulders. I love that I was myself, even when you refused to be. 

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