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Loathing Heart

I hate you.

I don’t hate people.
I strongly dislike parts of people:
their choices, their behaviors.
I don’t hate.
But, I hate you.

I hate you for being my father.
The kind that bullies his children.
I hate you for deciding it’s okay
to break our toys as punishment.
I hate you for choosing to run out
when IT gets too much to handle.
I hate you for making each day
something I want to forget.
I hate you for compelling us
to be quiet mice when you get home
from work.
I hate you for raising your voice
as if that would make all the difference.
I hate you for calling me names
no child should ever hear from their parent.
I hate you for making me weak
so I don’t fight back when I should.
I hate you for getting into my head,
enough to make me use a knife.
I hate you for the way you always
push up your glasses when you’re ticked.
I hate you for thinking it’s okay to beat your
children with a belt;
as if the welts tell the truth of our
bad ways.
I hate you for making any of us cry,
more than any child should have to.
I hate you for how I feel like I can
never come to visit without
being yelled at, or sensing the
tension in the rest of the family.

But most of all I hate you
because I became you
to my brothers.
You can never understand
the depth of my hate.
It hurts to know I was your
spitting image.
I can’t change the past,
but I can change for the
future.
My brothers deserve this
from me.
I don’t hate.
But, I hate me.

I’m learning to fight back.
I called you out that one day,
do you remember?
How shocked you were.
Disgusted I would even suggest
it’s your fault we act the way
we do.
How can you expect your own
children to be different when
all they see is you?

I hate you.
I’m working on not hating me.

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