To Define This

Him

There is only one person I've ever hated more than him.

And that's his fault as well.

No one has ever been so cold or cruel.

No one's words as sharp a knife.

None else have cut so deep.

I can see bone now.

Because.

Him.

No one has ever told me "you're fat."

Or "you're stupid."

Or "you're such a little ho."

Or "why are so bad at everything?"

No one has ever told me to cut again.

Or stop eating.

No one has ever told me that it would be better for everyone if I ran away again.

If I died.

No one but the voice in my head.

And him.

No one else has ever made me feel as awful as he has about myself.

My insecurities.

Past mistakes.

No one else has ever told me my sexuality makes me a slut.

Or that crying because I can't cook rice correctly makes me a "little p***y."

No one else has turned pain into a joke.

This is not a joke.

I am not a joke.

But I am.

To him.

Sometimes I want to kill him.

Make his words just stop.

Would it hurt less if it stopped?

But I'd still remember.

And maybe I deserve it.

Maybe . . .

Other times, I want to kill myself.

Everyone knows you can't feel if you're gone.

If you're somewhere else.

Someone else.

Gone.

But mostly I just cry.

Warm, salty tears drip drip dripping.

Down my face.

Onto the cold bathroom floor.

Because of him.

I'm here.

Because of him.

Because the only place I'm safe, is away. In a bathroom.

On the floor.

I don't understand.

Why?

How did he know what the voices were saying?

What to say to make it hurt the most?

Why does he hate me?

Why?

I don't think I can take much more of him and his words.

No more.

And the funny thing? The thing that makes it hurt the most?

He knows.

He knows what he's doing.

I've been down this road before and he knows.

When I did it, last summer, he found out. And I guess he lulled me into a false sense of security.

Just for a moment, I thought it would be okay.

But it wasn't.

He changed.

For a moment. But I'm not fragile.

I don't want to be treated like glass. I don't break that easily.

But then he didn't.

Change, that is.

I don't want to be treated like I'm nothing more than a piece of meat. Because out of everything, that'll break me.

Why can't he treat me as a human?

I am good enough.

Aren't I?

Is that why he hates me?

Is that why he makes sure each word slices into me.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

I thought I was.

But this is him.

Taking words and planting them in me until my brain is a garden, His garden.

His plants grow here now.

They speak to me even when he's gone.

And I can't.

No more.

I think I hate . . .