Weiss Kreuz - slash_me_twice - 084. Hate
084. Hate
*
I may be in love with you, and you may be in love with me, but the truth is that there are days when I still hate you. Days when I wish I hadn’t given my gun to one of your friends to hide in the house. Days when I wish I hadn’t figured out where you keep your sword. Days when I have to keep myself from going to that place and fishing it down from the rafters and slicing you to pieces.
The truth is that there are days I regret reading your mind, and when your indifference makes me want to snap your neck, or walk out without packing a goddamn thing and let you wonder where I went.
There are days I want to call up your sister and tell her exactly where you are, and buy her a ticket to fly in from Japan and rent a car to pick her up from the airport and take her directly here. There are days I even want to do that for altruistic reasons-but mostly, I want to make you hurt.
There are days I wake up and see the imprint of your head on the pillow next to mine and want to punch it, because would it kill you, just once, to be there when I woke up?
There are days when I want to cook you dinner even though you think my cooking is vile, just so I don’t have to do the dishes, and so you’ll have to pretend you like bratwurst the way I pretend to like that sorry excuse for pancakes you think is so wonderful.
There are days the sound of you taking a leak drives me off the wall, and days when I want to dump your hair products in the trash to make room for mine in the shower. Days when I want to scream at you or give you migraines so you’ll stop screaming at me. There are days when I honestly wish I had left you bleeding out by that mailbox so you’d become a statistic instead of someone who actually matters to me.
But those are just days, and often times, that hatred doesn’t last the whole day through. There are years I have loved you, and months I have been inspired by you, and weeks I have wanted to lie in bed with you-or do more than lie in bed with you-and whole days when I have done nothing but watch you from the corner of my eyes and pray that I wasn’t getting sentimental, and then pray that sentimentality didn’t matter to you as much as it does to me.
I don’t do lukewarm anything. I am always hot or cold, in love or deeply in hate. Somehow, though, love has always won out. I wonder why that is.
*
I may be in love with you, and you may be in love with me, but the truth is that there are days when I still hate you. Days when I wish I hadn’t given my gun to one of your friends to hide in the house. Days when I wish I hadn’t figured out where you keep your sword. Days when I have to keep myself from going to that place and fishing it down from the rafters and slicing you to pieces.
The truth is that there are days I regret reading your mind, and when your indifference makes me want to snap your neck, or walk out without packing a goddamn thing and let you wonder where I went.
There are days I want to call up your sister and tell her exactly where you are, and buy her a ticket to fly in from Japan and rent a car to pick her up from the airport and take her directly here. There are days I even want to do that for altruistic reasons-but mostly, I want to make you hurt.
There are days I wake up and see the imprint of your head on the pillow next to mine and want to punch it, because would it kill you, just once, to be there when I woke up?
There are days when I want to cook you dinner even though you think my cooking is vile, just so I don’t have to do the dishes, and so you’ll have to pretend you like bratwurst the way I pretend to like that sorry excuse for pancakes you think is so wonderful.
There are days the sound of you taking a leak drives me off the wall, and days when I want to dump your hair products in the trash to make room for mine in the shower. Days when I want to scream at you or give you migraines so you’ll stop screaming at me. There are days when I honestly wish I had left you bleeding out by that mailbox so you’d become a statistic instead of someone who actually matters to me.
But those are just days, and often times, that hatred doesn’t last the whole day through. There are years I have loved you, and months I have been inspired by you, and weeks I have wanted to lie in bed with you-or do more than lie in bed with you-and whole days when I have done nothing but watch you from the corner of my eyes and pray that I wasn’t getting sentimental, and then pray that sentimentality didn’t matter to you as much as it does to me.
I don’t do lukewarm anything. I am always hot or cold, in love or deeply in hate. Somehow, though, love has always won out. I wonder why that is.