I don’t love you. I believe. I want to believe that I love you just for the sake of knowing what I feel for you. But I don’t know what I feel. I don’t love you. I’d like to think I do. Because if this isn’t love, what is it?
I love you. These are empty words. It doesn’t feel sincere. It feels like I’m just trying to convince myself that I do. I loved you. That feels right. Oh, that felt right. That made me feel less confused.
I don’t love you. I don’t love you but I’d jump off a cliff if you said so. I don’t love you. I don’t love you but if you asked me to slit my throat, I would do just that. I don’t love you. I don’t love you but I would bleed to death trying to save you. I don’t love you. I don’t love you but I’d burn the pieces of me that would upset you. I don’t love you but if the world was in chaos, I’d catch whatever is thrown at you if it meant keeping you safe.
I don’t love you but why would I do these things for you?
I knew you’d stab me whenever an opportunity presents itself and yet I still handed you the knife. I knew the answers to my questions and yet I still asked away. And each time you stabbed, I smiled. Each time you answered my questions, I smiled.
I smiled because I saw it coming from a mile away. I smiled even though I felt nothing.
I don’t love you. It’s just the word that comes up in my mind when I think of your name. I don’t love you. It’s just the word that would make these feelings make sense.
And so, I believed it was love. How my heart skipped a beat every time you held my hand. I believed it was love when I felt butterflies whenever your lips touched my skin. I believed it was love when I let you rest your bones on mine by the heat of each other’s fire. I believed it was love when I couldn’t execute the unthinkable without saying goodbye to you. I believed it was love when I couldn’t go through with it just by thinking of that missed call from you.
But I don’t love you. I don’t hate you either. It’s frustrating to want to hate someone you can’t get yourself to hate. And it’s frustrating that the only person I can get myself to hate is myself.
I don’t love you. But just in case I do, I want you to hate me.
Hate me, until there’s nothing left to hate. And I’ll diminish myself, until there’s nothing left of me.
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