Tears of Hate

She was nothing, merely a child in the world. She was a contradiction of morals,
hatred, boldness, and yet such a coward.

No one understood her. Maybe no one cared. They thought she was just a girl in
black. A girl who looked so bold she could never cry. They called her a witch and a
bitch because she was quiet. But they didn’t know.
No one knew. They didn’t care that she had been rejected even before birth.
How could they know what it was like? They didn’t know how that affects a child who
builds with Lincoln Logs, always wondering how life could have been different had God
of her mother made her a boy. Maybe only boys had fathers.
She grew older, and fonder of the night in it’s blackness. She went out with
senseless boys who never knew how it broke her inside when they pushed their limits.
Her ears rang with words telling her to go be happy, words spoken by people she was
closest to. So she hung up the phone, she screamed, she cried tears of hate.
All these things that haunt me, you’ll never know.
They’ll never know these tears of hate.