To whom it may concern

I hate you. I hate the late A.M.
and the intervals of wakefulness,
the impulse and first thought
of reaching out to you
even though you'll never
wake up next to me, never
cross the ocean, never
have me put my ear against
your chest, to find out whether
our heartbeats are in sync.

I hate that you say you love me
when you're lonely, the way
your warmth seems like a fake
invitation to embrace you, when
you're lunging icicles at me
with every word you type,
every thought I feel.

I hate I can't define the scent of you
whilst your blanket is drenched
in a concoction of perfumes,
fingerprints all over you, sobs
staining all of your wardrobe
whilst I keep biting my tongue,
bleeding like the good girl
that's nothing but a lovelorn thorn
in your garden of roses.

And I just hate the way
you make my poems end
nonsensical, the way
you dove into my brain
and claimed all logic,
whispering, I love you
(I love you). Oh,

how I hate the way you say you love me.

15-02-2014
6:12 PM