love,
she hates the way it feels foreign on her tongue
on her body
she hates the way she shies away from soft hands and gentle words
affectionate embraces and periwinkle flowers
she hates calling her therapist, the silence that likes to nestle into the line
“did you cut out?”
she likes it when it rains, when thunder roars and icy flashes of lightning flicker
acts of divine agreement with her dissatisfaction
she likes the look of fresh crimson paint on canvas
the way it spills, spreads, dries
she likes the color blue, but she loves the color red
the color of love and
hate
