Three Words I Hate

Jodie had (fuck it has) my heart in a noose since the day I bumped into her at Pete’s sports bar. The music was loud, the lights were loud, her clothes were loud, and I was thirsty.
Thirsty for a fresh start,
Finding a new me,
Loving her with my new identity,
And treating her as if she’s soon to be my ex-wife.
And making plans for makeup sex before I say something I knew wouldn’t sit well with her. Vertigo splices my fingers, clasping her hands.

I hate you: Those were the words I’d come to hate.
There’s blood on my hands, punching words in my head until I’m black and blue. They’d pound my flesh like sticks and stones, breaking my bones.

I hate you: Those were the words I’d come to fear the most.
Because you can’t take them back.
Sure, you can say you’re sorry, but the words break my bones.

I give Jodie the silent treatment until I taste the smoke of her wrath on every part of me.

There’s blood on my hands.
I think I like the way she takes it back,
After telling me to die

I got in my truck and punched the gas down the trail, cursing her.

I couldn’t bear to hear the words I hate you.
I left in a rush before those words could exit her mouth.

I wrap strands of her hair around my fingertips,
Keeping her,
Holding her,
Hating her.

I hate you is what I hate to hear the most from her from anyone.
I’d give anything to see through a moment besides what I felt last night.
I left in a rush before she crawled out of bed to see a note beside the French imported lampshade.

Letting her not leave until she takes back three words: I hate you.

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