Our relationship is strange.
Some might say that love and hate are complete opposites. I'm not so sure.
I know he hates me. The feeling is mutual. I know he loves me. That is also mutual.
When he rolls off of me, and we're both panting and half-asleep already, and pleasured and satisfied, I can feel his warmth next to me, and I know he'll be there when I wake up.
This is more than I've had for most everyone I know.
My brother questions me about it a lot. "Why are you with him?" he asks, in that quiet voice of his.
I will answer that I do not know. He is not loving, he is not a good person deep down, and I can easily live without him, but I do not want to. He does not mutter sweet nothings to me, he has never kissed me except to claim me, and he does not complete me in any way.
When he speaks, I get uncomfortable cold shivers up and down my spine. Sometimes he bruises me and makes me bleed.
I suppose I'm a masochist. I enjoy it quite a lot.
I've never been squeaky clean either. I instigate all of our arguments. I have never given him flowers, or acknowledged him when he walks through the door, nor have I ever wished him happy birthday.
We've never introduced each other to our families. We've never done anything for each other on Valentine's Day. I have shot him before, and waited, watching as he tried to staunch the blood flow with his huge, calloused hands, until he finally passed out from blood loss an hour later. He has hit me so hard that I was out for three days.
I think about these things, and I sometimes doubt him, doubt us, but then I think, Doesn't it mean something that I bandaged him up afterwards, and that I woke up in his bed?
We both keep a loaded gun near us at all times, just in case.
I still have a hole in my door from when he punched through it, trying to get to me. His upstairs window is covered with thick paper from when I smashed his head through it.
I love to dirty him, stain his pale skin and hair with blood, and he loves to dirty me in the same way.
My knives have carved raised angry ridges into the planes of his body, and his have carved small intricate designs into mine.
We are very careful, though, so only we can see those scars, and no one else.
At least he's a constant. I know however many times he leaves, he'll come back, and however many times I leave, I'll come back, too.
No, he's not a good person. Neither am I. But we don't care. No, he doesn't say he loves me. Neither do I. But we both know. No, he doesn't treat me like I'm special. Neither do I. But we both can see it.
Oh, how I hate him. Oh, how I love him. There's just no way to explain it.
Love and hate aren't opposites. They're quite a bit closer than you'd think.