I fucking hate you.
Not in that cute way—
Not in that high school “ugh you’re so annoying” way—
I mean skin-peeling, blood-boil, pray-for-my-restraint hate.
I mean every cell in me revolts at the thought of your name on my screen.
I mean I hope your pillow’s always warm, your charger never works,
and every playlist reminds you of what you did.
You left a crater, not a scar.
I don’t *heal*, I detonate.
You wanna see damage?
Watch me thrive just to spite you—
outgrow every mold you ever tried to cram me in.
You gaslit me like Edison,
dimmed my shine, then blamed me for the dark.
I spoke in poems—
you heard nothing but stuttering.
I bled honesty—
you called it a mess.
I fucking hate how I *don’t* hate you enough.
How somewhere under this rubble,
a voice still whispers your name like a habit I ain’t broke yet.
But I will.
With every breath, every win, every ruthless self-rescue,
I burn another piece of you off me.
This is your funeral.
I’m the eulogy *and* the fire.
You had me—
and now you’ll never find me in *anyone* again.
I fucking hate you.
And that’s the kindest thing I’ve said all day.