You were supposed to love me.
But instead,
you reminded me of sitting in a dentist's chair
or not being able to find a matching sock
or early mornings and crowded public transportation.

And I was supposed to hate you for that,
but instead -
you reminded me of a new cashmere sweater
and the lullaby my mother used to hum to me as a child
and the books that line my shelves.

And even when you made me go numb;
I could still feel you every time I got a paper cut,
and see you in sun that sets late on a summer evening ,
and hear you in the wail of my alarm at 6 am on a Monday morning,
smell you in the daisies that grew by the trail,
and taste you in the bitter flavour of my medication.

There were versions of you in everything I hated and everything I loved in life
and now that you won't even look my way,
all I want is to stop living.