I swear I hate you. I hate the way you induced me into our introduction during our first encounter. I love the way you smiled that night but hate that I didn’t ask for your number. I hate how much I thought about you the next day and hate I that you asked my frat brother for my extension before I could extend you the invitation to ride with me to church that Sunday. I love the fact that you go to church.
I love how much we have in common but I hate that it makes us ideal for one another. I hate texting, but I text you all day. I hate how fast you reply because I love the feeling of my conversation being enjoyed. We talk “on the real.” I hate that we’re too young for something “real,” something different. But I love that we are aware of it. So for now I will enjoy the indifference of love and lust that exists in the interest of our trifling generation. I hate that I can’t have you right now but I love that what I do have, essentially, is a best friend.
I hate how much you remind me of my mom. It concerns me. I don’t want my woman to be just like my mom. We’re too young, so I don’t acknowledge the real potential. I love the uncertainty. Knowing you is great but confiding you is forbidden. I live amongst an oppressed and scarred generation of women. My guard is up. But nonetheless, you are different and I love it, I think, I hope, I swear I hate you.
The Bolt Magazine 