I yelled at him until my lungs lost their air and my throat felt raw.
Yes, he had wronged me, but somewhere deep inside, I knew I was screaming at the one hundred men standing in line behind him.
He became the face and the voice of all the men I hate,
the men who have shut me up,
cut me off,
pushed me down,
run me over.
He has begun to remind me of the angry man in my house,
the man who r*ped me,
wronged me,
used me,
left me.
When I say that I hate him to his face, in some ways, I do. Yet, somewhere deep inside, I know I have been harboring and fueling a hatred that was left to fester by someone long before him.