I Don't Hate You

You are the trigger that reignites
an enmity of adoration and abhorrence
in the very fibres of my being.

I don't hate you, on the contrary;
it is easier to be angry
than to admit I am broken.

The state I am in is one of careless mend,
a whole made out of pieces,
a volatile kind of stable,
a looming sort of combustion
that threatens to explode at our every almost-touch.

I don't hate you, S.

The Hardest Part

I recently read an article which said that the hardest part of moving overseas was coming home. Reintegration to a society and life you've left behind. The life you vehemently tried to leave in your past so you could fit in to a new environment and do away with the homesickness... is now your present. You're back in semi-familiar grounds where nothing is the same: people have moved on, everything thinks differently, your family is finally used to the idea of you being away, etc.

It does suck.

But I guess I am whining from a position of privilege. So I shall stop.