I do not hate you. 

I hate my experiences with you.

From when I was wearing onesies

and slippers, 

you have shown me

I can only long for your love,

and never be worthy of experiencing it.

In my fathers hesitation,

I found the answer.

I am the art that 

is only meant to look pretty

from far away.

But as you step closer,

really looking into the cracks of the art,

you begin to see the imperfections

Screaming.

Yelling.

Manipulation.

Unworthiness.

Gaslighting.

Emotional abuse.

You slowly begin to realize that

you’d rather look at the art from afar.

I do not trust that 

you will not abuse me as he did.

Because what other man was there

to tell me otherwise?

From then on, 

I knew I didn’t need you.

I didn’t need you to help me,

love me,

please me,

or care for me.

But then the loneliness kicks in,

and the cycle repeats.