Hating people had never come easy to me— by that, I mean hating individuals. Because as an expert in social anxiety, hating people had always come easy to me. But this type of hate was different. Instead of visceral anxiety that ate me up inside, it was burning anger. Aching anger wasn't something new for me. I had always struggled with anger issues in the past, and burning rage for little to no reason wasn't something I never encountered.

Coming home after the binder accident was definitely a trip. My mom was mad at me for being unsafe, and I hated it. Usually, she let me deal with everything that had to with my trans-identity, but right now she was worried. And it was completely understandable, her being my parent and all. But I just needed to deal with these things alone. I hate being coddled.

I tried ignoring reality, burying myself in books and notebooks, writing poem upon poem to bleach my soul of worries.

My hatred for him never faltered. As words poured out of me onto paper it became more tangible, physical even, and my anger burned through my soul and through any remorse that had been present before.

He didn't deserve my guilt.
His homophobia and transphobia had erased him the right to access any kindness from me.