"We weren't even trying," and "It was an accident lol," and "it only took us a month of trying".

I really, really, hate you.

I can't hate you, but I do. After loosing a baby that was going to mean everything to me, things changing in a wonderful way, they were lost. All my hopes and dreams dashed at that doctors appointment. Bone crushing, heart wrenching sadness. I was only twelve weeks. I didn't get to find out the gender, I didn't get to hear it's heartbeat, I didn't get to hold it. I had to flush that tiny life down a toilet.

I hate you.

I got nothing, but another ten months of trying down the drain. Another six months waiting to have a safe pregnancy. And eight months currently trying to conceive.

I hate you.

And yet here you are with your "Oops," and your "Accident," that I would kill for. Decorating a nursery, picking out baby names, making a life.

I hate you.

While the love of my life tries not to let it get to me, consoling me when I see your happy little posts on facebook, or when we get back from hanging out and all you talk about is the life inside you, and what great plans you have. It's not fair to him. Who so desperately wants to be a daddy, who deserves it so much more than anyone else.

I hate you.

I have never had such dark thoughts directed towards anyone, yet I am thinking them on you. Wishing you the same thing I went through, knowing you don't deserve it. Knowing it is wrong. A miscarriage is enough to drive anyone to their breaking point. But I am wishing you would know what it's like.

I hate myself.

Because for some reason, I am not good enough.