He Hates Me, He Hates Me Not
She likes the way he always smells like poisons and dark dank places.
Then she likes the way his irritated glare sends others scrambling, and shivers down her spine.
Then she likes the way he speaks, toxicity dripping from his tongue, each syllable sounded out painfully slow, like he's speaking to imbeciles.
Then she likes watching him work, spellwork and knives and crushed shake fangs mixed together to capture death itself in one little bottle.
Then she likes the way he looks, tall and dark and menacing, long black hair unwashed and face wrinkled at the edges from years of anger, just like hers is darkened and sharp from years of screaming into an abyss.
Then she likes the way he looks at her with distaste and hatred, the rejection forming a craving in the back of her broken mind.
She likes the way he hates her.