I Hate You

I hate you—

but my hate is not simple.

It burns like a candle that refuses to die,

wax melting into my hands,

searing me more than you.

I hate the silence you left behind,

the echoes that breathe your name

in every corner of my mind.

I hate the way I still look for you

in shadows,

as if you might rise from the dark

and undo the ruin you caused.

I hate you for teaching me love,

then ripping it apart like paper,

leaving scraps of myself

scattered across empty nights.

I hate the way my tears taste—

salt and sorrow—

reminders that my heart is still bleeding,

still foolishly alive

when it should have turned

to stone.

I hate you,

but when I say it,

the words tremble,

betray me,

sound too much like

I miss you.

And that is the cruelest truth of all.