Them.

I hate them.

I hate the air they breathe, their words. Their actions. I hate the light in their eyes that never seems to go out. I loathe the energetic way they walk, how they fall in step with me on the sidewalk. I hate their unpredictability, a sparkler that kept burning and burning. They are the fire on a summer morning, the sharp chip on a bowl, the bane of my existence. They are happy when I feel empty, comforting when I want solitude.

Yet why do I wait and listen to their words? Why do I purposely slow down my pace when they are tired? Why do I smile when they get excited and frown when they’re upset? I am nothing like them, I am like the moon. Any light I have a reflection of theirs. They keep burning, and I keep feeding the flames. I complain of the heat, but I dont dare douse it out. I grumble of the storm, but don’t dare go inside.

I hate them. I hate that I love them.

Because they shouldn’t love me.