I Hate You

"I hate you." I try to pour all the hate my heart can hold to say it again, a little louder: "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I hate you." I’ve never spoken to you once— not even looked at you for a full minute. Still, I can't get your face out of my head. What, what exactly did I do to you for you to haunt me like this, nonstop? I hate you for stealing the quiet peace inside my head— with your stoic walk and pretty face. I hate you for making me smile when that smile should only be yours, and for filling my heart with sorrow when it should belong to you alone. I hate myself for hoping you succeed no matter what. Your happiness and comfort light up my heart, and I hate you for that. I wish you knew you had a hater— one who hates you with such passion. Yet here I am, wishing all your worries would disappear. I hate myself for failing— failing to gather all that hate and failing to throw it in your face. Why? Why can’t I? I try—I swear I try but somehow I end up wondering how, how it would be to drag my hands across that pretty head of yours. And I want to hate you for that. God, I want to.