I hated you

I hated you when you smiled at me on the rainy August day for the first time, shining with your crooked teeth like they were the sunshine which is let into the church through a tiny window near the ceiling, urging me to pray, to be on my knees.

I hated you when you approached me once and told me you read my blog and that you like it because it “has the feeling that like, just like is so good”; when it was the best you could come up with and yet it flattered me, like you told every word I typed on my keyboard was the Gospel.

I hated you when you passed me the tissues when I spilled water once during lunch like you were the Mother Teresa of this generation, of this town, of this life.

I hated you when you told me I’m pretty and your eyes were filled with the glow of a sinner who just confessed and was forgiven for his sins; like seeing my face was the view you craved as you would a steak during fasting.

I hated you when you let me into your life, your stupid secrets, your everything, and I put conscious effort to do everything not to be your Judas.

I hated you when I held your hand for the first time. It was cold and hard and with sticking edges like a crucifix, and I wanted to cry hallelujah! but I was also so scared, like a newly Christed baby.

I hated you when you ignored me for weeks and it was so confusing to read you, as a Bible; and as a Bible, I kept reading you ‘cause not finishing it once you start is a blasphemy.

I hated you when I first confessed my feelings to you and you disappeared from my life. I felt sold for thirty pieces of silver.

I hated you when I loved you.