Hate

It wasn’t fair, the way he made me feel. How he could turn me inside out, upside down, left and right and leave me feeling cold and empty. He hid himself from me in a way that made me feel isolated no matter how much love I gave him. I could talk to him as frequently as I liked and it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing mattered because he couldn’t come out of his shell. He was afraid, which I knew, but I hated him for it.

He was a coward dressed in the confidence of a prince. Pride flowed from his lips and slipped from his fingers, shone from his eyes. But beyond all that was a small child sitting in a place dark and lonely. I didn’t know who or what had hurt him, but he was fighting fiercely to protect himself. I could do anything for him and nothing would be enough to open the door. So I chose to hate.

I spoke of his flaws. I hate the way he feels so entitled! How unorganized he is! He’s so ignorant, so condescending! But I was hiding just as much. Hiding my love that I didn’t want to admit I could have. And maybe that was exactly what he was doing. Maybe he wasn’t hating me, but he was fleeing from feelings and locking them in. He didn’t want to see them escape, see the consequences.

So maybe we were the same. You’re supposed to dislike the people most like yourself, so I guess that was me. Maybe that was us.