LaMeta

I hate how you make me feel. The way my heart almost pierces itself trying not to feel. It knows.

I hate how everything depends on you. When we touch, when we don’t, when we kiss, when you leave and when I stay.

I hate the dry taste in my mouth as those opened messages on my phone sit there, robbed of a response. The green light says you’re logged on, but obviously not for me. I hate the fact I break my stubborn pride every time hoping maybe this time is the time. “Maybe the times before this weren’t the right time.” I lie to myself often. I lie to myself when I know the truth, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this time might be different.

I hate the disgust and shame I feel when I break my pride, only to be proven wrong as my ego laughs at me one more time. “What’d you expect?” She laughs from the corner of my room as I fight the urge to click “send” yet again.

I hate how happy I get with those little moments. Those moments I seem to live for. A look, a smile, a touch, a word. But I hate them. They say the mind can forget but the heart always remembers what it felt. But these little moments give the bitch amnesia.

I hate not knowing, it’s truly a curse. The way I can be an open book while you’re a locked diary. Maybe you’re blank and locked for mystery.

You make it the easiest to hate you.

I make it so damn hard.