My skin misses yours and your scent which smelled of your father’s cheaply Caucasian cigarettes, the only thing I could smell everytime you envelop me with your arms every starry midnight of October. I meant to tell you that you were slightly wrong about me enjoying the cold hard greensward in our neighborhood or of the nights when we drove city by city while listening to a The 1975 song, because the truth, I was more enjoying your company. But I hate you so much. I hate your tricky innocence, your child-like laugh, your cheaply cut thick hair, your pathetic aspiration to become a well-known contemporary artist on Deviantart and move to another country, and the smell of your sweat—the memory of it. I also hate the pact we made, that we would only talk of nonsense like how there are so many books in the world but too little time to read them all in a lifetime. Why wasn’t there a time we talked about us two? I tried to decode things like when the night when you told me I was fun to be with and you love seeing my forehead furrowed everytime you mess with me, but it came out a mantrap in the guise of words. I hate you for telling those words. Yes, my eyes may miss the sight of your warm smile. But I’d love to not see you again. Your cold face. Your reddish cracked thick lips. Your green hoodie.
I’m slowly falling in love with a boy who I know will never love me back.