Categories > Original > Drama
I hate you. There, I've said it. I hate you.
I hate you with a burning passion. I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone. This is the first time that I can say that I truly hate someone. Hate them so much that it burns me inside. I can feel it inside me, burning a hole where my shattered heart should be.
A heart that you shattered. You've singlehandedly broken me. You should be proud. You did what no one else could. You broke me. You picked me up and dropped me as if I were a porcelain doll. Except I'm not perfect, pristine, porcelain. No, I'm me. The opposite of perfect: broken.
The shards that are left of me stick out, jagged and cracked. Not hairline fractures, but cracks the size of the grand canyon. Cracks that are open for everyone to see, to mock my imperfections. That's what you do, right? Or do you not want to think of it as mocking? No, you'd rather see it as 'constructive criticism.' Well you can't 'construct' something on debris.
There is one person I hate more than you: me.
But that's mostly because of you. Because of how you broke me. Beyond repair at this point. Little, imperfect me. Did I ever stand a chance? No, no chance whatsoever. No chance of what exactly? I'm not sure, but it wasn't there.
I still hear your words echo in my mind. Or maybe they're mine... I'm having trouble keeping track. The words are all the same though: ugly, fat, disgusting, failure, disappointing, disappointing, disappointing.
At first I didn't believe them, but I slowly came to realize, hey, why would you lie? What reason would you have to lie? I mean, you've always prided yourself on being honest; why would you lie now?
Because you want me broken. You want to hear me cry myself to sleep at night. I hear the creak of your footsteps outside my door, lingering too long. Do you get what you want?
But beneath all the lies and hurt, beneath all the hatred, there is a sense of love. And that's what makes me hate you more. The fact that you make me love you. Because you care when it counts. But you deny more than you care. And that's where the hatred is fueled.
Somewhere between this balance of care and denial, love and hate, is where I fall. With my head a swirling storm of love and hate, yin and yang. I'm still not sure which we are.
I hate you with a burning passion. I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone. This is the first time that I can say that I truly hate someone. Hate them so much that it burns me inside. I can feel it inside me, burning a hole where my shattered heart should be.
A heart that you shattered. You've singlehandedly broken me. You should be proud. You did what no one else could. You broke me. You picked me up and dropped me as if I were a porcelain doll. Except I'm not perfect, pristine, porcelain. No, I'm me. The opposite of perfect: broken.
The shards that are left of me stick out, jagged and cracked. Not hairline fractures, but cracks the size of the grand canyon. Cracks that are open for everyone to see, to mock my imperfections. That's what you do, right? Or do you not want to think of it as mocking? No, you'd rather see it as 'constructive criticism.' Well you can't 'construct' something on debris.
There is one person I hate more than you: me.
But that's mostly because of you. Because of how you broke me. Beyond repair at this point. Little, imperfect me. Did I ever stand a chance? No, no chance whatsoever. No chance of what exactly? I'm not sure, but it wasn't there.
I still hear your words echo in my mind. Or maybe they're mine... I'm having trouble keeping track. The words are all the same though: ugly, fat, disgusting, failure, disappointing, disappointing, disappointing.
At first I didn't believe them, but I slowly came to realize, hey, why would you lie? What reason would you have to lie? I mean, you've always prided yourself on being honest; why would you lie now?
Because you want me broken. You want to hear me cry myself to sleep at night. I hear the creak of your footsteps outside my door, lingering too long. Do you get what you want?
But beneath all the lies and hurt, beneath all the hatred, there is a sense of love. And that's what makes me hate you more. The fact that you make me love you. Because you care when it counts. But you deny more than you care. And that's where the hatred is fueled.
Somewhere between this balance of care and denial, love and hate, is where I fall. With my head a swirling storm of love and hate, yin and yang. I'm still not sure which we are.
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