I'm back home,
sleeping in the bed we made love on.

We haven't spoken in a few weeks now.

I miss you.
I didn't think I would,
and I know I shouldn't.

I hate you,
I hate so much about you,
I hate all the awful things you did to me
and I hate that you hate me now too.

I walk past the places you kissed me,
I sleep in the bed where you first told me you loved me
(remember? You said it when I told you I was leaving you.)

I know about all the manipulations and the lies,
but somehow,
when I think of you,
all I can think about
is the way you would tell me how small my hands were,
you would fold them in yours and kiss all my fingers.

Our weekend rituals.
The summer weeks where your parents would go to Nevada and we would stay in your bed all day.
When we built a fort out of blankets in my room and spent the whole weekend watching netflix in our castle.
Your stupid ******* tiny car with your spiderman plush ball on the dash.
(I still have the Iron Man one you gave me in my dorm room.)

I'm drinking the same wine we used to sip,
until you stopped drinking.
So I started drinking by myself,
(You said you loved it when I got drunk because I kissed you more)


I never wanted to love you,
I knew you were bad for me,
I knew you were going to **** me up,
and believe me, you did.

But I can't stop thinking about the way you would kiss my shoulders,
the way we would sit in my car in the rain listening to the Killers after school, how we would drive down to Roseville for no other reason than you thought I deserved a nice dinner.

Sometimes, just for a drunken moment, I forget that you were literally the worst thing that ever happened to me.

(I hate that I still care about you)
(I hate that you ever ******* came into my life)