Permission to Hate


I hate you. Every time you belt me across the face, I hate you. Every time you tell me I’m nothing, I hate you. Every time you scream at me and accuse me of hating you, I have to bite on my tongue and stop myself from agreeing with you. And it hurts, because I shouldn’t hate you. I’m not allowed to. And yet I do.

Whenever you strike me with a belt, whenever you thrash me blindly, screaming out what did you do to deserve someone like me, whenever you throw things at my face, I feel so relieved. How fucked is that? But it’s true. I am allowed to hate you the minute your hand crashes against my body, and not before. It doesn’t matter what you do after, if you leave me alone or if you pummel me until my body is bruised and bloody; when you leave me bleeding on the floor, I can feel some relief in knowing that no one would judge me from wanting you out of my life.

I know I make mistakes, believe me, I am well aware that I am the biggest fuck up the world has ever seen. Look at what I did just now. I wish that I wasn’t so fucking stupid to make that mistake. But you make mistakes too, the red mark on my cheek is now one of them. You won’t know this, I won’t even look at you tomorrow. But others will.

Don’t get me wrong, I hate myself for doing this as much as you will. I wish that I loved you like all daughters should. I wish that I didn’t ruin things like I do, I wish that I could trust you, I wish that I could tell you the things that happened. I never would’ve wanted things to be like this between us, I’m sorry….


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