It's complex. 

 I want to shake the hand that slapped me, and I want to burn the hand that slapped me.

I long to see you as a child. I want to see you smile with baby teeth, scraped knees and wearing a shirt with your favourite superhero. I want to see you next to your parents and meet your brother. I need to see you as a person, a son, a sibling, a child. I need to see you as something other than your hands. 

I imagine your way to school. I think about your favourite subjects and childhood nemesis. I try to guess your favourite smell and the food you would crave when you were feeling sad. I make a mental note of old songs I think you would have danced to or turned the radio off for. In none of these fantasies do you grow up to drink or get mad. 

I don’t exist in these thoughts, imagining that my presence might be the reason for your anger. 

I want to believe that you were a happy boy. A curious angel, striving to make a change. A friend who admits to his faults, a brother who listens, and a son who loves freely and openly. I see you as kind, forgiving, honest, and soft. I can imagine it in a world where you don’t run into me. 

Did you have a favourite stuffed animal? Did you dream about travelling to space? Did you think you would never grow up to be a man who hurts? Hurts me? Did you think you would be a better man? In all my hopes and dreams, and in every life, I’ve imagined for you, I didn’t dare to see you like that. 

I look at all the books you’ve read, and I try to decode you. I try to see where I mistook you for a better man. I frantically search for the secret message in which you told me you would hit me, and I can’t find it.

Can you tell me where I went wrong? Can you tell me that I missed the signs and the warnings? Can you tell me that you planned this all along? 

I need you to tell me that you were an evil child and that I’ve been imagining a fairytale. I crave to hear that you hated all the good things growing up, like pizza and cats. I want to know that you’re a bad friend in every universe and unlikeable to everyone you’ve ever met. I need to hear that I wasn’t the only one. 

I grew up hurt. My father was the first one to lay his hands on me, and so far, you’ve been the last one. I’ve never had love nibble on me with its baby teeth; I never had innocence or romance. Still, I need you to tell me that I wasn’t the only one you struggled to love. I’ve only known love to be rough, ugly and consuming, but, please, tell me I’m not the first girl you’ve hit. 

I was a child with a big smile and missing baby teeth, wearing pink shirts with princesses and horses. I scraped my knees and my father drove me to school. I loved to read and I had no friends. I liked the smell of fresh laundry and always craved the bread my grandmother used to bake when I was sad and alone. I was a child just like you. I was curious and loving and kind. I was curious and loving and kind even after you hit me. 

I would have liked you as a child, and I would have laughed at all your jokes. I would have liked to be your friend but you’re not the little boy I imagined. You’re all grown up and you’re different. I wonder if I should continue imagining a life for you without anger and violence. A life without me. 

Another short text for me to handle my emotions...

Do you know that quote about writing one sonnet for someone because you love them and writing hundreds of them because you just love writing sonnets? Yeah? That's not what this is. I'm so overwhelmed with life at the moment and the fact that I won't even be in the country to deal with this that I feel like I can't even properly grieve this situation. 

Anyway, this is how I currently feel: 

Bonus one for you: