Yesterday

Yesterday, I hated you. You were foul-mouth and rough, pushing people around and fighting, sneering and spitting and swaggering as if you owned the world; as if everyone knew you owned the world. You had dyed red hair, so bright I couldn’t see anything else, and I wondered if that was some sort of shield, ‘cause no one ever looked further than the boiling spikes.

Today, I think I like you. You’re as loyal as they get, not afraid to go your own way, do your own thing, stand up to whoever the hell you feel like; you broke Mike Richardson’s nose when he called me a slut. You have these brown eyes that crinkle at the edges when you laugh, and a smile that twitches constantly at your mouth, and when I see you, I can’t help but smile back.

Tomorrow, I think I might love you.