I Loved Her

     I loved her in the most toxic ways possible.
     I loved her when she loved me, when all was well and she would pull me to her and ask me silly things like if I loved her, or if she was beautiful. I loved her when she'd bolt out of the shower wrapped in my towel and left wet footprints on my hardwood floors. I loved her when she dropped her towel in front of the bed, threw herself under the covers next to me, and cling to me to absorb my warmth. I loved the stubborn way in which she'd argue with me that she was right even when she knew she wasn't. I loved her when she was mine, late at night, hiding from her demons in my bed, after a few glasses of chocolate milk when she'd tell me stories about her childhood. I loved her despite the darkness she cloaked herself in, despite the twinkle of hatred in her eyes when she'd tell herself she's stupid, despite the track marks on her arms, despite her scars and lines... and most of all, I loved her despite her efforts to make me run away.
     I loved her when she didn't love me, when she wasn't mine. When she'd tell me about the nights she spent with whomever she loved, when she'd tell me that this was the one that would make all her problems go away. I loved her when she forced me to like them, when she defended them against me, and when she chose them over me. I loved her when she called me mean and told me that I don't know what I'm talking about. I loved her when she convinced herself that these guys could handle her in the long run and how she'd change for the better if they loved her. I loved her when they'd break her heart and she would come to me crying and bleeding, telling me this one was the last one, telling me she wouldn't survive the night. Oh how I loved her then.
     I loved her most when she bled and cried because it was then that I hoped, while nursing her wounds, that she would realize she loved me too, but she never did. And so I loved her, still, in the most toxic ways.