hatred

There are old wounds here. Very old. They date far back to adolescence, as far as I can remember.
I have always dressed in style and good taste. That is what you have taught me. How can you not trust that? Why do you always make me feel ugly, indecent, vulgar? I’m not. The vast majority far outnumbering me are clad in their backless tops with knee length skirts. I know I achieve better effect with far better taste. How dare you accuse me otherwise? I hate you, I hate you for making me what I am and I hate you for realizing what you do and not caring what it does to me. I hate you. This goes far too deep, because your opinion counts the most. I hate you for hurting me with inconcrete callous words so I do not know with what tools to fight back.

I hate you. I hate myself.