I Hate Myself For Not Hating You

I don’t hate the way your name can fill up the room with a thousand dolls. I don’t hate the way your ego feeds off of your collection of hearts. I don’t hate the way your closet is filled with the skeletons you keep locked up, all of the ones that never got the chance to grow.

I hate the way my mind still leads me to you, despite everything that I know.

I don’t hate that you have to pry open my insecurities, just so you can bury your own. I don’t hate that you have to distance yourself from love the second someone gets a bit too close. I don’t hate that you have to make others feel less important when things don’t go your way.

I hate that I have to feel bad for wanting to leave , even though you give me no reason to stay.

I don’t hate how you painted your true colours on my heart in permanent ink. I don’t hate how you drowned it in water once things got too hard, thinking that everything would simply wash away. I don’t hate how you asked me to forget it all, to give you another chance.

I hate how I let you convince me to fall one more time, with just a simple glance.

I don’t hate the dishonesty of your words every time you swore you’d change. I don’t hate the emptiness of your promises that always kept me alive for one more day. I don’t hate the insincerity of your apologies that you were never man enough to tell me yourself.

I hate the forgiveness that rolled off of my tongue, tempting me to keep blaming myself.

I don’t hate you for consuming every last ounce of my hope. I don’t hate you for thinking I would be naive enough to be another piece of furniture in your doll house. I don’t hate you for mistaking my silence for your victory, for confusing “yes” with “no”.

I only hate myself, for still not having the strength to let you go.