I hate you.
I hate the way you still live beneath my skin
like electricity trapped in broken wires,
shocking me awake every time your name
crosses the silence.
I hate the good.
The warmth that still reaches for me
when your voice slips through the dark
like a song my heart remembers
even after being told to forget.
And I hate the bad.
The ache that follows after.
The collapse.
The way I still fold myself into shapes
that only ever fit your hands.
Bending like metal under heat,
breaking like glass beneath pressure,
all because some part of me
still answers when you call.
I hate the pull between us.
That cruel magnetic force
that drags my soul toward yours
whenever distance fails to keep us apart.
Like opposite poles cursed to touch,
only to spark,
only to burn.
I hate knowing
I no longer matter to your heart
the way you matter to mine.
That somewhere along the line
I became replaceable
while you remained permanent.
But most of all,
I hate you because I am no longer allowed
to say the one thing
still clawing at my throat.
The one truth
I bury beneath anger
because grief sounds too much like weakness.
I hate you
because “I love you”
is no longer mine to give.