I would never wish this was fiction. It’s so perfect that I’m scared it isn’t real. But it is, we are, He’s still here.
Last night, I lost control. I stormed in and held my face inches from his, and I stared him hard in the eyes. He asked why I was so close, and I told him if I moved I would punch him, and I didn’t want to do that. “Hit me and see what happens,” was the response I was given, and I laughed at his threat, then I slapped him across the face so hard it was a surprise his parents didn’t wake up at the noise. Then I waited for him to hit me back. But instead, he sucked his teeth and said he was done, and he clenched his jaw and crossed his arms before staring at me with a look of utter disgust in his eyes. I told him I knew he wasn’t done; just as I wasn’t, just as we always said we were done but never were. I told him to hit me back. He kept asking why. I kept telling him to do it.
I said that I know him, I know that face; he wanted me to fuck off and never come back. He laughed and said that actually, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch me or kiss me. I told him to kiss me then punch me in the face. He grabbed me, kissed me so hard that my lip bled from the pressure of his, and pulled on my hair so much so that the pain became pleasure.
“Go to bed,” he whispered, pulling away.
“Because I don’t know right now if I want to kill you or fuck you. And if I do fuck you, I’ll completely destroy you.”
The veins on his neck were pulsating. Apparently, I was a sick, twisted individual, and he held my face in his hands to mutter, “I can’t so this. Our relationship is built on hatred for one another.”
“Yet it works.”
“When am I ever going to be rid of you?”
I smiled, kissed his nose, and whispered, “One day, you will, trust me.”
My back is covered in scratch marks, there are bruises around my neck, my facial cheeks are still stinging red, and clumps of my hair are lying on the bed.
I hate him; mind, body, and soul. And I fucking love it.