I. I lie in that hospital bed wondering whether I still hate myself wondering whether he still hates me.
II. "slut." "cheap." "bitch." "flat." "cold fish." he called me all of that in front of his friends boasting how he caught me the naive ugly flat-chested girl "who thought she could match up with Zing." his dream girl. Zing. and what hurts the most was that he called me names when we were still dating. "are you alright?" my friend asked he who told me all that I didn't know whether to be grateful or hurt. he rambled on and on and on "we'll punch him and kick him in the groin" I nodded mechanically trying struggling to recover from the shock. how could he do this to me? I hate him.
III. six months later I saw him at the bus stop he looked the same he acted the same I shied away I turned away I hoped that he didn't recognise me. I hate him still. but. I can't do anything helpless. helplessly watching him walk away without an explanation. do I still hate him? I... I... I don't hate him. anymore.
chiiyo's comments :
This poem was written some time after my suicide attempt, triggered when I met my ex-boyfriend once more. He had been in Australia studying, so I had spent a good amount of time picking up the pieces and growing into a different person before I saw him again. I had started hating him then, because I found out the other side of the truth: that he didn't treat me like a girlfriend, but more of a prize, something to demean and boast about in front of his friends. Possibly the most insulting comments he had made to a friend of mine were the ones insinuating that I was a loose woman. So I began to realise that giving him up, might have been the wisest thing I've ever done. I would spend days when I walked near his old school imagining situations when I would see him when he came back to visit friends, and I would do something appropriately humiliating to him. Over time, it became so that I would envision myself not humiliating him, for my heart had softened, and the comments did not hurt so with the passing of time, but I would, in my imagination, demand an explanation of why he had done what he had done. But the strange thing was, after an even longer period, I stopped even those situations. So I was caught off-guard when I finally did meet him one day, at a bus-stop. Strangely enough I started to hide. I realised I didn't want a confrontation, something that would be embarrassing for both parties. And when I saw him leave the bus-stop without noticing me, I realised that I no longer hated him. I still feel anger when I remember what he had said about me. But I believe vengeance has been exacted. I had made him upset, maybe not sad, but upset nevertheless, when I dumped him first, so in a way, I feel like the hatchet has been buried. So if you ever read this, Nicholas Chong, keep that in mind.