Hate and love

"I hate her," he swears. And his hands clench into fists, so tight that the nails create little crescent shapes in his palms.

"I hate her," he promises. And his hands shake so violently he has to steady himself.

"I hate her," he repeats. One, two, three times. "I fucking hate her."

But even a stranger could see by the fire in his eyes that he doesn't hate her. A passerby could take his hands and the little crescent shaped marks and see her name written into his skin. He doesn't hate her. But he wants to, oh he wants to.

— m.f. // Excerpt from a book I may write #9
//Hate and love