The Things I Hate

I hate the things that I can't say.

That I woke up one morning
when I was five
to the discovery that my father had left without a goodbye hug.

That I learned hate
when I was six and we were moving;
I called our landlord Mr. Big Nose
and drew his way way too large
because he'd allowed our cats to run away without me.

That I began dreaming of death
later that year
right after my little brother died,
believing that I didn't belong in the life I had.

That I kicked my other brother in the head when he was three
because he walked in front of the swing...
there was no way I could have stopped,
but I didn't feel bad.

That I witnessed abuse when I was seven
and will never wipe my fear
of my mom's then-girlfriend's ex-husband's cruel hands from my mind.

That I assumed the role of parent
when I turned eight,
expected to take care of three little boys
when my mom and her girlfriend forgot we were there.

That my mom's girlfriend's eldest son terrified me
and bullied my brother and I both,
but we were the ones his mother blamed
when I couldn't stop the yelling.

That mom's girlfriend mixed drugs so often,
I began to recognize the signs
and knew when to make myself invisible
just after I turned nine
because I was always doing something wrong.

That my brother and I had to move out of our bedrooms
because it wasn't fair for mom's girlfriend's sons to be in the basement alone.

That her girlfriend yanked me from sleep in the middle of the night
ranting that I had let the neighbors in again
to spy on her.

That it was always my fault
she was angry.

I hate that I can't tell you
that I was afraid to speak my mind
because my opinions were always the wrong ones.

That my mom was always telling me
I wasn't allowed to talk to anybody
because they would only use the things I said against us,
against her.

That my father became the enemy
because he was trying to steal us away.

That I hid myself under veils of pretenses and lies
because otherwise, I would have snapped,
and because no one else could know.

That my diabetes was a hindrance
to the people I was living with
because it meant the adults had to actually act their ages.

That my dreams turned into nightmares
and I began wondering why I was still alive.

That I was almost raped
when I was thirteen
and spent the next three years in paranoid delusions
because he carried a knife in his pocket
whenever he tried to talk to m.

That I was the girl everyone pitied
and the girl everyone feared
because I only had five pairs of pants
and if my mom was into women
than so was I.

That I was the girl everyone talked about
but nobody spoke to;
that I traded friends constantly
because no one ever stuck around.

I hate that I can't share with you
all the moments of my past I hide,
because I know these things would help you understand.

And I hate that I can't hate
anyone apart from myself,
but I've never been one to place the  blame...
just the one whose fault it always seems to be.