I don’t hate you.
Part of me still loves you.
The warmth of your presence
was soothing to my aching soul.
There is no excuse for what you did.
But my troubled mind learned
to confuse harm with care.
When you said you loved me,
and that’s why you continued,
I wanted to believe you.
You called it love but it was control
Because how could something
that felt so warm
also hurt so much?
How could the arms
that held me while I cried
belong to the person
who made me cry?
I miss you sometimes.
And that makes me hate myself
for missing you.
But perhaps the hardest truth
is that loving you
does not make what you did okay.
And knowing what you did
does not make the love disappear.
Both can painfully coexist, but only one of us pays the price
You hurt me.
You comforted me.
You were someone I loved.
And you were someone
who hurt me.
I am the one left untangling this.
I am the one learning I deserved better.
I am still learning
that those truths
can live in the same heart.