I think you’re just angry.
And I think you believe you hate me.
But I don’t think it’s me you hate.
I think it’s the sadness sitting heavy in your chest.
I think it’s the parts of you you’ve never been allowed to hold.
I think it’s the pain that has nowhere else to go,
so it lands on me.

But I’m not mad at you.

Because I’m happy now.
Because I’m healing.
Because I’ve learned to sit with myself
without wanting to run.
This isn’t me trying to be the bigger person
this is just peace.
This is what it looks like to know myself
and not shrink when others don’t.

Maybe you’ve been through worse.
Maybe the walls are closing in on you
and nobody ever taught you how to cry for help
without hurting someone else in the process.
So instead, you lash out.
You call it honesty.
You call it hate.
But I just see grief.

And still, I’m not mad at you.

Not because I’m a saint,
but because I’ve sat with my own rage
and survived it.
Because I’ve met my own darkness
and didn’t make it anyone else’s fault.

This is not me being kind.
This is me being free.

I know who I am now.
And when you know who you are,
you stop taking things personally.
You stop needing to win.
You stop needing revenge.

You just hope
in the quietest, gentlest way
that the people who hurt you
find what they’ve been searching for.
Even if they never say sorry.
Even if they never understand.

I hope you heal.
I hope you find a softness that doesn’t scare you.
And I hope you come home to yourself
the way I finally did.

And when you do
I won’t be mad.
I’ll just be here,
still at peace,
still me.