The Last Straw

Hatred is not an emotion I take lightly. I didn’t hate Michelle for outing me to everybody long before I was ready. Nor did I hate my father for leaving me—us—that one day in June. But the second you raised your hand to me, the second it met my face in a resounding slap; I knew. I hated you. I still hate you. I will always hate you. And the longer I remain in this stifling, fucked up relationship, my hatred for you will only grow. It will grow and grow until it’s its own entity. Until I hit back.