I don't know  if I will ever be able to hate you more than I hate myself.

I hate having to come home every summer.
I hate living under the same roof.
I hate having my voice taken.

Stolen.
I feel like a child, angry yet unable to illustrate the emotion I feel swallows me whole.
It bubbles up, blinding me and I throw tantrums
And Break plates, and flip over dinner tables
In my head.
Always unable to hurt you
Because my vernacular is limited
All that is left is those
caveman-animal like grunts and groans that point to dissatisfaction

I keep trying to remind myself,
We are similar.
Fighting the same fight.

But when I can't run from the malicious thoughts
That gather in my brain,
That hunt me down like an angry mob,
I am forced to remember.

Remember that time,
Your fingers stuffed those seeds in my ears,  
I couldn't have been more than four.
Those seeds took root.
Deep in the crevices of my brain.
Hungry weeds watered for twenty years.

Remember that time,
you got me down on my knees
and tried to get me to eat that serving of guilt I had let slide off my plate.

Now.
I hunger for escape.
And you keep bringing up your death.
And I wish I could tell you,
I have wanted to die for the sole purpose of harming you
Of finally having the last word
In the only way I know how.

But I can't.
We can't.
Nothing can.
So I'll try to love us.
To Fix myself.

Maybe someday I'll succeed.
On one or the other.