Fuck you.

Fuck you for making me feel like all my happiness was leaving my body, carried by the blood that oozed out of the cuts on my hands from your broken beer bottles the night before.

Fuck you for making me think that happiness was the scalding water that burned my hands while washing your dishes, a baptism of love that I didn’t want.

Fuck you for making me trade in church every Sunday for a new communion of vodka and my salted tears.

Fuck you for making me throw my dreams in the closet like an old pair of sneakers that were beaten down by endless laps on pavement.

But mostly, fuck you for making my soul shrink as quickly as the sun lowers itself on a cold, winter night. Your gaze became the piercing, unforgiving north star that I blindly followed, even when it lead me through a Hell of thorns and beasts.

Fuck you.