Notes: Two first-person love drabbles in a week? FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC.
I don't own shit.
Is this all right?
--
Is it all right that I hate you?
That I get the urge to spit on your high class fine made leather shoes whenever I so much as see your face turn the corner? That my stomach tightens and threatens to burst my previous meals through my lips whenever I hear a person utter your name? That my teeth painfully grind together involuntarily every time I catch a glimpse of those abominable color combinations that belong to your house of noble filth? That the only reason I ever grew my nails out was so I could daydream about taking my fingers and scraping them across your so-called perfect face? That I would love nothing more than to tear off those putrid lips that perpetually shout "mudblood" my way?
That I like to write down as many synonyms for hatred as I can think of in my spare time, while thinking of you? That I habitually wonder what I could force you to do under the Imperius Curse? That I wouldn't mind seeing you under the Cruciatus Curse at all? That I don't want you to be subjected to the Killing Curse, since, well, death is rather too good for you?
Is it all right that I can't get over how much I hate you?
Is it all right that I hate you?
…
And then…
…
Is it all right that I love you?
…
That I forget anything and everything about hatred once I see you sitting alone on the stone walls? That I contently smile to myself whenever you show up to class half-asleep with no awareness of your surroundings? That I can't tell whether my brain is releasing adrenaline or serotonin when I catch a glimpse of you halfheartedly looking my way? That every time after I finish listing down words of hatred, I think about how things would be so much more different if I weren't a muggle born? That even though I know things wouldn't be any different since I'm also in Gryffindor and friends with Harry, I still like to think of what things would be like if we were on nicer terms with each other? That I resist the urge to glare daggers into my friends upon hearing them hiss and spit insults at you? That I initially hated those few instances where you scored higher on a test than me, but then change my mind and enjoy seeing you happy as you gloat to your cronies? That I want to know what your hands feel like? What your cheeks feel like?
Is it all right that whenever I find myself unable to get to sleep at night, I write your name with the movement of my eyes? Over and over again, scribbling your full name in cursive until my eyes grow so tired that I can finally fall asleep?
Is it all right that I love you?
I.
Love.
You.
Why the hell do I love you so much? Or better yet, why do I go back to hating you as soon as that contemptible smirk crawls its way across your face?
My passion doesn't know where to aim itself.
I had no idea it could run so strongly both ways.
…
And don't you call me masochistic—don't you even dare. Unlike masochists, I thoroughly despise you when you say and do despicable things. I just…love you…at the same time…
Oh, for God's sake, this is not good for my heart.
Isn't it funny how painful words are associated with love?
Falling in love.
Drowning in love.
Crazy in love.
Dying in love.
I'm sure there's more, I just can't think right now.
But,
I always thought it was silly that nobody noticed. That nobody ever asked, "Why can't we just say happily in love, or something positive?"
But loving and hating you just made me understand that no one brought it up because there was no need to.
I'm thinking way too much. It's three in the morning. Not even your name can lull my eyes to sleep at this point.
There's a test in Transfiguration tomorrow, and all I can think about is swooning over your mist-filled eyes while at the same time, seething at your holier-than-thou attitude as you glare at me with those mist-filled eyes.
I can only think about how my heart paces at a ridiculous rate as I hear the low rumble of your voice while my stomach tightens in disgust as I hear that low rumble spit out "mudblood."
I think about your thin eyebrows and smile, but frown upon seeing them fiercely curved downwards when pointed in my direction.
I think about your lips and blush, but give a frustrated sigh when I see them morph into a disgusted scowl as I come into view.
…
It seems that I can only love you when you're not paying attention to me.
I hate that.
I hate you.
I love you.
…
Is that all right?
--
The End
Notes: So I hate first person love drabbles where a person sits there and just MUSES. Yay-I-am-a-hypoctite.