I love you, she said.
She screamed it into my face.
It was as though she was trying to convince me.
I love you, spat at me, then said again,
this time in a kind of indifferent monotone,
I found my sweater, or
Looks like rain…
I love you, she said, again…months later,
then berated me, again.
And the pain lessened
I love you.
The churning wasn’t there.
The pain subsided and I understood then.
I love you means
I hate me, and I hate you because you don’t.