I hate that. The way my hair looks after a long day, when every finger makes it worse. I hate the sound of the alarm, and that darkest moment in the brightest light. I hate the shadows that keep you warm, and those that creep up on your face. And I hate the thoughts they share when no one asks, and the silence of those we should've shared.

What's the point of keeping to ourselves if we don't want to be alone? Why enjoy solitude so much if we yearn for someone's warmth at the first rustling of leaves?

I hate how we never say we're scared. How we never say we're sad. How we never say what we miss. I hate loving so much, and I hate to hate.

If the wind blows the wrong way and takes our home away, why go through all the effort of building a life?
I hate the bombs, I hate the kings, I hate the ringing of a telephone.

I hate how you put your hand on my shoulder and ask what's wrong. I hate that deep breath. But I love to exhale. Nothing, I say, but I love that you asked.