I hate what you did to me.

I hate that you stole from me; that you used me for years.

I hate that I couldn't leave my purse unattended.

I hate that you made me feel worthless, unsexy, and unwanted.

I hate that you brought drugs into my life.

I hate that you made me feel like the few nice things you did excused your behavior.

I hate that you stole the best years of my life.

I hate that you called me "crazy" when I didn't think what you did was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

I hate how it ended and how you berated me until I couldn't take another second of it. So I blew the fuck up and tackled you.

I hate that I had to call the cops and beg them to take you away.

I hate that you were lucky enough that the stupid cop that showed up was your "boy" and did fucking nothing.

I hate that I ended that night with a black eye and fingerprint bruises around my neck where you picked me up by my neck, my feet not touching the floor.

I hate that for the last five years of the seven that you lived with me in my guest bedroom, I didn't get one minute of affection from you.

I hate that you called me "crazy" and "irrational" when I expressed my displeasure about this.

I hate that you took advantage of my family's generosity. That you'd still go with us on family vacations, sneaking out each night to sleep in another bedroom.

I hate that you destroyed my faith in myself; told people that "I could not exist without you."

I hate that I tried so fucking hard to make you better. I tried so hard: I bought you a truck, replaced the engine, while trying to restore your bad credit.

I hate that you are now dating a woman old enough to be your mother. A relationship that may have started while you were still living in my guest bedroom. 

I hate that you're probably doing things with her that I'd always wanted you to do with me. 

I hate that you've given up the drugs for her - but wouldn't for me.

I hate myself that I allowed all of this to happen.

And I most of all, I hate that I miss you.