Hate

Even as I entered the house, hate's presence was violently felt. He was on the sofa, sitting in a deceivingly calm state. I couldn't help but choke on the ugliness in the air. His cigarette, which was pinched between his fingers, let flow the smoke that slithered upward and into the atmosphere. I couldn't remember the color of his eyes, for he always avoided looking at me. No matter where I was, under that roof, I felt him near me.

I couldn't get him out of my mind!

I could hear his teeth grinding as I entered any room he was in. Civility was his only way of dealing with me. Otherwise I was a chore. I often felt suffocated by him, overwhelmed by his existence, even pigeon-holed and unable to move without worry of provoking him. My footsteps were often light around him, but relaxed when he'd gone out. He'd come home and could chill the place a few degrees, dim the light, and my mood. Eventhough we're apart, I can still sense his feelings for me when he throws a dark look my way and summarizes what I already know.