You did this

You did this to me, didn’t you? You’re the reason why I have a hole in my heart that will never heal. It’s not a hole, it’s a void. It’s a gaping vacuum that sucks things in to compensate for the empty space inside – an infinitely increasing emptiness that can never be satisfied. I will never be whole again and you did this to me. I am handicapped because of you. I am crippled by a black, permanent sorrow in my chest that won’t leave me, a melancholy so heavy and thick it prevents me from enjoying anything. But I WANT to enjoy things. I have unwavering ambitions, desires and goals that must be achieved and you’ve robbed me of precious time by burdening me with this consuming grief. You did more than that, you robbed me of a good childhood. You robbed me of a flourishing adolescence, of the crucial development of my communication skills and the capability to form a stable identity and relationships that aren’t adulterated with distrust and envy. All because what? It was so hard to love? It was so hard to care about the wretch you forced into the world when you care so much about the others you begot? Why am I the only one you are apathetic to? Why am I the only one you are incapable of loving? Is it because of my sex? I didn’t choose to be this way. Why didn’t you just abort me like you wanted? Why did you bother letting this superfluous entity (paraphrasing your exact words) come into this world to neglect it? It would have saved the both of us the stress and effort of my existence if you had just snipped my life before it even came into fruition. You screwed me from the very beginning and I hate you. I hate that you don’t love me but you say you do, yet perform no acts of affection beyond words. It is so fake it’s repulsive. I hate that you’ve infected me, I hate that you exist, I hate that you’ve allowed me to come into this world dependent on running and then broke my legs. I hate that you can’t fix it, I hate that nothing can fix me.