Hurt. Hatred.

Why can't I just accept you as you are?

The glazed look in your eyes remind me of what has been stolen. The confused look tells me what remains. The childish glances hurt me and give me hope.

What remains stirs up hate—hate for the culprit who has robbed you. I know many times I lash out at that thief, but in the process I end up hurting you.

Pops, I'm sorry for hurting you. I forget that it’s not your fault. I forget that it is not you who are responsible for your condition. Forgive me for misdirecting my anger.