Hidden Shell

People say I should hate you,
but I don’t.

I hate the things you did.
I hate the bruises,
the harsh words
that still echo louder than silence.

I hate the lingering shadows—
the dark side of loving you
that refuses to leave.

But I don’t hate you.
I can’t.

How do you hate someone
fighting a war inside their own mind?
A battle they never chose,
one they lose in ways no one sees.

I can only imagine your demons,
the weight of them,
the hollow spaces they carve out
where love should live.

I don’t hate you—
but I don’t envy you either.

I pity you.

I wish I could have taken your pain,
held it in my own hands,
quieted the chaos—
so we could have loved each other

the way we were meant to.

I have seen the fractures in you too,
how your mind bent inward,
a house with the lights flickering,
doors slamming on their own,
voices you could not quiet.

But some storms
cannot be borrowed,
and some people

cannot be saved by love alone.

I know pain recognizes pain.
I know storms do not ask
where they are allowed to land.

Still,
you were the storm
and I was the ground.

I will not carry hatred for you
like a second injury.
It asks too much of me,
asks me to stay tethered
to the worst version of your shadow.

Instead, I set it down—
not in your hands,
not as mercy,
but as release.

You are what you are:
a person who hurt me,
a person who is hurting.

Both can be true
and neither will undo the other.

I walk forward without you,
not because I don’t understand,
but because I finally do.

And understanding
is not the same
as staying.