i hate you, he says.
and she says i hate you too.
and they don't wring hands or throw keys or shoes or toaster ovens.
they just know what it is.
in all the lies that everyone ever told them about the truth.
about what truth means, really, when you can't stop rocking in your chair or pulling hair or saying your insides out. into ears that hear.
imogen knows that hating you feels like the soft undersides of the true way true words often catch in the back of the throat. found things. precious. like pebbles and stray inconsequential conversations with friends that didn't really mean anything at all.
at the time.
i hate you, she wonders into the stray snow porch lamp light. twisting the truth into the heavy full dreamy taste of black current on the tongue.