“Why do you hate men?”

The stranger on the internet asks.

He’s called me a bitch twice

And I should block him

But what would that achieve?

“I don’t hate men,”

I correct him calmly.

“I hate the way men have treated me.”

I hate the way men have belittled me.

I hate the way men have disrespected me.

I hate the way men have hurt me.

I hate that men have lied to me

Used my softness like a weapon

And smashed me into dust with it.

I hate that men have used me

Like a cheap hotel room.

I let them in

They make a mess

Break things

Then leave.

I hate that men have abused me

And covered me in fingerprints

On my wrists

Around my throat

On my thighs

And in my mind.

I hate “Full disclosure:

I have a girlfriend.”

Two weeks in.

I hate “I’ve known some incredible women

Who I’d drop everything for

But you’re not one of them.”

I hate “No offence

It’s just that you’re such a cold bitch.”

I hate “You’re not what I expected.”

I hate “You’re the catch that gets thrown back.”

But most of all I hate “You’re a defective woman.

You’re broken.

And who wants that?”

I hate that all these moments

Still have the power to cause me pain

And have hurt me in ways

I may never recover from.

But no.

I don’t hate men.

If I did, life would be much easier.

But perhaps that’s not the right question.

Perhaps the real question should be:

“Why do men hate me?”