love is just a camouflage for what resembles | rage.
I'm so angry. I hate you so much, because for every knife you stabbed through my chest there were three more in my back. Foolishly I thought that you never meant any of it, that I was just seeing things, imagining slights that never actually happened. But they did happen didn't they? I wasn't crazy, like you suggested. I wasn't imagining. And you were wrong. YOU WERE WRONG. You took my dreams and you crushed them like broken glass. You did everything wrong. I never deserved it. Not then and not now. How could anyone be so selfish? To steal from a child, to let me believe that no one cared enough about me to insure my future. To use thinly veiled barbs to keep me in line. To lie about your past. To continue lying about it. To do all those things, while only one person tried to stop you. I thought I hated you before, but now I know without a shadow of a doubt that I didn't hate you enough. You took everything from me, and you did it willingly. I might have been able to forgive you before. But now, I can't and won't. You ruined everything, you took everything. I thought I knew what rage was, that I knew the meaning of the abuse of power. But I had no idea, and now? I don't ever want to come home, because I'm not ignorant anymore, I know everything, and it will never be the same. What hurts the worst though, isn't that you stole, but that you knew the whole time what the consequences were, and that because of that I have to pay for it, and you still don't care. You took what wasn't yours to have, you took that money, the only legacy that I would ever get. And now I'll never be able to think of Papa without thinking of how my own parents stole the only gift I would ever receive from him. But what hurts the most is knowing that if Aunt Pat wouldn't have told me, then I would have never known.