Contradictions

I hate me, but I love myself. A contradiction most can’t understand. But it isn’t for them to grasp—it’s mine alone, the reflection I face in the mirror every day.

I hate how I was raised, how easily I can manipulate and twist because it was carved into me before I could walk.
I love the truth I speak, because I refuse to be who they tried to make me.

I hate the scars across my skin, each one a map of abuse and survival.
I love them too, because they remind me I lived through what was meant to destroy me.

I hate my eyes, mirrors of the monsters whose blood I carry.
I love that if someone looks deeply enough, they’ll see how I clawed my way out of a darkness that would consume most.

I hate my mind, the way it drags me back to nights I’d rather bury.
I love the words it gives me—the way I can conjure worlds from shadows, whole galaxies from whispers.

I am love and hate, bound into one.
Fire and ice, carved beneath the skin.
Beyond the fragile emotions of “normal” human beings.

I am broken, and I am whole—
stitched together from a hodgepodge of shattered pieces
that will never quite fit,
yet somehow still hold me upright.