I Hate That I Don’t Hate You At All

I hate you.

I hate you for feeling like home when you so clearly don’t intend to be. I hate you for taking the option we both know makes the most sense. I know in my brain that it’s the right move, but my heart stubbornly wants its own way per usual. I hate my own soul for refusing to let go of you in a way that defies all logic. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. I tell myself I barely know you. I tell myself that I’m dreaming up fairy tales in my stupidly romantic brain.

It doesn’t matter. The heart wants what it wants, and mine is exceptionally wayward.

I hate that I know you feel some sort of something too, but that it isn’t enough. It’s always the same old story. Am I really that tough to date or am I simply underwhelming? I hate that disappointment after disappointment influences me into doubting my own magic. I know I’m fucking magical. I guess I’m not your kind of magic and I hate that as well.

I hate you for being the kind of person I could see myself loving, yet someone who will never let me.

You lit like a fragile dragonfly in my palm, but before I could cup you sweetly with both hands to keep you forever near, you were off, barely present yet leaving an indelible frustration stamped in my memory.

I hate you for being a mirror that reflects my weakness back on myself. I hate you for showing me I can be truly and comfortably myself around someone I actually like, but who doesn’t want me. I hate you for somehow sticking around in the periphery of my life and I despise myself for encouraging it.

But we both know “hate” is a useless word, a word full of desperation and petty heartache. We both know I don’t hate you at all – you’re far too lovable for such a thing.

That’s the worst of it.