Sometimes I want to hate you—
for breaking our family.
No, we didn’t have children,
but we had Skye.
And in my heart,
we were our own little world.

Sometimes I want to hate you—
for the heartbreak that lingers,
for tossing me aside
like I was nothing,
like we were nothing.
But I can’t.

No matter how hard I try—
to hate you,
to dull the ache—
I can’t.
Because I love you.

And I know your reasons
weren’t about us.
You thought you had to push me away
to do what you believed was right.

But I hate that you couldn’t lean on me,
that you carried it all alone.
You took on burdens
that weren’t yours to bear,
and still—
I admire you for it.

I hate that you put us on hold.
I hate how you’re slowly erasing me.
The days are bearable,
but the nights?
The nights are endless.

I wake up expecting to find you,
to see a message saying you miss me.
But I don’t.
And I hate that
it’s always me reaching out first.

I hate that you chose for us,
without trying to find another way.
I hate that I still feel you
in the empty spaces.
I hate that I pray—
every single day—
for you to come back,
to say you were wrong.

I hate this fragile hope that won’t die,
the belief that somehow
we’ll be better—
that love will make us stronger.

But most of all,
I hate that I’m alone in this hope.
I hate the masks I wear,
the smiles that lie to the world.
I hate how much I miss you.

I hate that I don’t know
how to be near you
without wanting to hug you,
kiss you,
hold your hand.

I hate that I fear so much—
the thought of you
being gone for good.

And I hate
that no matter how much I wish I didn’t—
I still love you.