If I hated you like you think I hate you, you’d be dead.

If I hated you as you think your lungs would cease to inflate, your heart would slow, the blood in your veins icing slowly until it stood still.

If I hated you like you think I hate you, my thoughts would bury you alive, grains of sand tickling against your nose one by one until they came faster and faster still and became an avalanche.

If I hated you how you’re telling everyone I do, faceless men would dog you down dark streets, as you looked over your shoulder, as they slowly closed in, as you realised you weren’t paranoid, as sharp metal flashed in a single glint of moonlight, as your life seeped out onto the street, as you died alone.

If I hated you like you think I hate you, my skin would peel from my body, burnt away by the powerful emotion unable to be contained inside, raw muscles moving and exposed beneath the sun, skeletal sinewy fingers still grasping for you.

If I hated you like you wished I hate you, you’d actually matter to me.