I hate the way I feel about you.
I hate how I still cave
at every word you say,
every touch, every want,
as if my heart never learned
what my mind has begged it to forget.
I hate the way I feel with you.
Because when I look at you,
I still love you like we were kids,
before the wounds had names,
before love became something
I had to survive.
But beneath it all,
there is anger.
There is hurt.
There is pain that has burrowed so deep
it rots me from the core,
quietly feeding on every part of me
that still reaches for you.
I can’t hate you
the way I want to.
I can’t love you
the way I want to.
So I remain,
caught between leaving you forever
and wanting you forever,
between the door I need to close
and the hand I still pray will stop me.
I try to let go,
but there is too much force pulling me in.
Every time I think I’ve escaped,
I find myself back where I began,
loving you,
resenting you,
losing myself somewhere between the two.
A Möbius loop with no other side,
no beginning,
no end,
just me circling the same wound
until I can no longer tell
whether I’m trying to escape you
or find my way back home.