I hate the way you say my name.

Like it belongs to you, as if you own it, as if it can't ever escape your suffocating grasp. You held onto it so tightly, of course it needed to escape.
It needed to breathe.

I hate the texture of your hair, and the way I can still feel it if I think hard enough. I wish I would have ripped the precious mop from your head, to give you what you deserve now that I know the truth about you. I want to show what I think of you and your degrading words.

I hate the fact that I can still remember the way you smell. But don't even think of taking that as a compliment. It isn't a good smell. It's one I recognize only too easily now; dirty laundry and skin and hair that hasn't been washed in days.

I hate the stupid gifts you gave me in attempt to save what made you feel powerful, in attempt to buy my love.

I hate the lies you told me. I hate the things you said to break me down. I hate the way you never cared about my pain, mental and physical. I hate your jealousy, your thickheadedness.

I hate the way you made fun of my work, of my art. You made me not want to even look at the poetry I wrote that I had so naively let you read. I hate the way you quote them with a sneer on your face. Pulling out my weakest pieces and lines and displaying them for critique. I hate the way your voice pitched defensively when I told you how your insults hurt.

I hate your kisses. I hate the horrible laugh you gave whenever I pulled away. I hate the way you think you have an advantage on me because of the way I was “madly in love with you”. I'm sorry, try “madly in LIKE with you”. I hate how you threaten nonchalantly to tell everyone my secrets. I hate how you tell everyone everything you should have kept to yourself.

I hate how every smile was a deceitful one. I hate that with every fight there was a deeper blow, a more painful sentence that scars forever. I hate that every snide remark, every glimpse into each others eyes, left me cringing from my past, left me broken. Striving to do my makeup right. How to fix my hair just so. What to wear. How to stand, how to SMILE. For fear that yet another flaw will be pointed out and leave me defenseless, and useless.

I hate how every good memory of the past year is now almost completely fogged, blacked out, by the bad memories. With every blissful day, there comes a painful night. A prick of poison that kills off everything else.

I hate that I wasted so much time on something so negative.
I hate the way you (I pray you won't, but if you ever read this) will smirk and point straight away to the weakest point in this letter.

I hate that I'm still so pained, so angry, that I had to take so much time to get all of this out of my mind.

And lastly,

I hate your handwriting.







Yours Truly,










Better Off Alone