We meet. Not in love. But in hate. I hate her. Everything about her makes me sick to the back teeth. Her smile, a voice, her eyes, her lust. And mine too. When we meet, it is not the human, but pure animal that takes over. I want to bite her, scratch her, hurt her. And does the same. Blood, bruises and pain is what passes through our senses on meeting. I want to tear parts of her off, defile her, make her scream out to stop, to beg for mercy. And she wants the same from me, my hate, my vitriol, my disgust. There are no thoughts of desire, but a virulent strain of nastiness that comes oozing from me.
Then we stop.
Lie awake next to each other.
A moment to recover from ourselves and our motions.
To realise who we are.
What we are.
But not why we are.
I turn my head, I see her. She ignores me. So I ignore her, and look up at the ceiling.
I think of her. I’m not uncomfortable, nor am I filled with that hate, but instead with pity. Pity for her, for me and for us. How come we are like this when come together, knowing that everytime we meet, we are unsatisfied with each other. But still we meet, all the time, wanting more, not less. But what are we trying to create. It is not love, it is not joy.
But yet we cannot resist meeting up, seeing each other, being together. Are we trying to achieve a promise that cannot be realised by two such wretched souls. Or are we just two very lonely people, lost in the city. In despair, with the knowledge, that maybe, this is it for both of us. A life not of love, but an exitence, punctuated during the mad rush with a hatred that is now a substitute for our hearts, minds and souls…