I hate you, she breathes to me hoarsely,
like the words had always been caught
in the sandy dunes of her parched throat,
buried deep but never forgotten.
Her eyes are ablaze with nothing
but years of built-up hatred and rage,
and looking into such intensity, I think:
there is no mercy now,
is there?
I hate your stupid hair,
your stupid face,
your stupid lips,
and your stupid brain.
You're too quiet,
you're too aloof,
you're too boring,
and you're too plain.
So bring an end to the wailing and waiting
for they will never trace your cries,
they will never hear your whispers,
and there will never be that somebody.
Her voice rattles every fibre of my being.
I stay silent.
Every word she has said
are things I cannot turn away from,
things I cannot deny,
and things I already know.
But what I don't know
is why she's crying.
Crying for me,
crying with me,
crying like me.
