I hate what he stole

I hate that my first kiss wasn’t with you
I hate that my first kiss was drunken and sloppy
I hate that it felt like nothing
And tasted like vodka

I hate that I felt butterflies
When he looked at me
But felt nauseous
When he touched me

I hate that I kept saying no
But couldn’t tell if the scream
Was actually audible
Or just inside of my head

I hate how he kept talking
Giving me compliments
That I knew were recycled
But enjoyed nonetheless

I hate that he threw up afterwards
Once I finally convinced him
To go back inside
“I’m just so sleepy”, I lied

I hate that I hated it
I hate that I cried
I hate that it still haunts me
A year and a half later

And I hate that it wasn’t with you.

Author's Note

rough draft