I hate how he looks at me
I hate how I know what he's thinking
I hate how I know how this is going to end
I hate how everything I do he corrects
I hate how I say yes every time
I hate how I love him
I hate how the little things block out the things I hate the most.
Like the way he kisses my neck
And the way his hands fit my body perfectly.
And the way his smell stayed on my pillow after that night.
And I know sex isn't love
But those few moments I feel like I'm loved
In those few moments everything else doesn't matter.
Even though I know he's going to leave.
Those few moments of heaven mean something.
They mean I'm not thinking about the things I hate about him.
And things I wished he loved me for.
And the fact that I hate myself for loving him.
