To the Father that Cheated

To the Father that Cheated,

I don’t hate you.

I lie in bed, drenched in sweat, mind clamped down by the horrors that your mistakes have inflicted upon my life and my future, and still,

I don’t hate you.

My thoughts are imprisoned with fear and the slightest implication of love from a man slams my heart against my ribcage and tells me to run and still,

I don’t hate you.

I can’t read fairy tales anymore without tears cascading down my cheeks and I’ve made the walls around my heart impenetrable but still,

I don’t hate you.

I love you, and I will never stop.

But please, tell me one thing.

As you brush the tears off of my face from a boy who said it was over, how can your eyes meet mine?

When you listen to my muffled sobs through my door because I’m terrified to let someone love me, how can you live with yourself?

After you find my dusty journal from high school that I left tucked behind my bookshelf depicting all the heartbreak I’ve endured, how can you tell yourself that you’re any different from the boys who were too young to know better anyway?

When you said “In Sickness and in Health”, and “ Until death due us part”, how tightly were you crossing your fingers behind your back?

How can you tell me you love me when you destroyed the woman who gave me to you?

I don’t hate you.

I love you, and I will never stop.

But please, tell me one thing:

Why?
By: Amelia Faith Pratt

Advertisements