Dear hopeful loved one,
I say you did this to me, and I say I hate you.
But when I say I hate you, it means I hate the way you bring me back to myself—
the self I have tried to destroy,
the self you know is still in there somewhere.
When I say I hate you for praying,
I really hate the conviction I feel
when I hear and see you on your knees,
bombarding heaven for me
while I stand there holding the stone in my hand.
I hate that I don’t want you to stop praying.
Equally so, I hate that you will never, ever stop.
It sets me on edge seeing you stand in the gap
between me and Heaven,
because I know that where I am now,
I will not stand there for myself.
My life is not your responsibility,
but you carry me like a burden on your back
and lay me at the foot of the Cross every day.
I hate the truth you carry
because of the lies I have to constantly create
to cover the tracks I’ve laid.
I hate this train ride to nowhere.
Things will never be the same,
and while I know it’s my fault,
I will never speak it—
not because I fear you,
but because I fear me.
I fear the seams that will unravel,
tearing me into a thousand pieces.
When I pull away from your embrace,
it is because I feel—
and being around you makes me feel more.
I hate that I shove you away
because I so desperately want you around.
I hate that I want to pick up the phone
and hear your voice say my name
on the other end of the line.
I hate that you want me,
and I hate that I want you even more.
I’ve surrounded myself with people who hate you,
and in reality it makes me angry they hate you—
because I still love you,
despite the betrayal.
You won’t give up on me.
You still love me.
And I really, really hate me.
I hate the mask I put on
to make you think this is what I really want.
It’s not what I want,
but I hope the pride I carry makes you think I’m okay.
I hate the control I use,
so I blame it on you
and call you controlling instead.
I hate being afraid.
I hate the paranoia that I’ll be caught in my actions.
I hate wanting so badly
to lay with my head in your lap.
Now you know—I want you to hate me,
and I hate that you never will.
Love,
Your Prodigal