Hate. Hate how much I love you, him, his and all the things that hold me hostage when the words filter in/out without and within the scope of his hands.
Love the way we hold, unfold, curl, swirl, engage, abandon, hold in, and release the process of existing — that leaves stains that attract animals — until the daggers of our entitlement threaten and save.
A guy. A man. Whatever.
He makes me love, that’s all I want in return, and not just in the way I imagined when the air seeps through the shaft and chills the beads off my back and his chest.
It’s whatever, when he gets up and I smell the shape of him and then pretty it up again.
It’s love. We hate how love can tear apart the morsels in your throat that choke when you swallow air of joy and pain.
I can’t take the burden of giving back the gifts that stay unwrapped — no matter how many times you share him with bodies of past/present/ — the future never holds enough to erase the memories of another mental tribunal.
I still want a guy to love, hate, love, hate, love, hate. Fate.