I Don't Hate You

You are the trigger that reignites an enmity of adoration and abhorrence in the very fibres of my being.

I don't hate you, on the contrary; it is easier to be angry than to admit I am broken.

The state I am in is one of careless mend, a whole made out of pieces, a volatile kind of stable, a looming sort of combustion that threatens to explode at our every almost-touch.

I don't hate you, N.