I hate you

My dad had left by the time I was three.
You must have known that already.
Why else would you choose the daughter
of a single mother, with an infant son?

While you are surely dead now,
I can still smell the stink of those
nasty fondant filled licorice you enticed me with.
I cringe when I see them in the candy shop.
I still hate greenhouses and cacti.
No wonder I hated Arizona.
I still feel those old calloused hands on
places they never should have touched.

Did you know, that on that day,
you singlehandedly shaped the rest of my life
more than any parent, counselor or teacher ever could?
You showed me I was not safe.
You showed me not to trust.

I stopped washing and brushing my teeth.
I slept under heavy woolen quilts,
even when it was August.

I didn’t go visiting friends.
I didn’t want friends.
Friends could not be trusted.
They hurt you. They hurt your children.

I hate you. I hate what you’ve done to me.
I hate that I worry all the time.
I hate that I have to lock my doors and windows in a ritualistic manner.
I hate feeling dirty and used.
I hate feeling un-normal.

I just want to be normal.
And just when I begin to feel normal
something happens, and I know that I’m not.

I hate that I’m not.
I hate that there’s something wrong with me
I hate that there’s something about me, that draws you in.
I hate that I can’t see that until it’s too late.

I hate that you go on living in my memories, when you should be dead,
and I feel dead, when I should be living.