I am thinking about the facts.
You hate me.
And you are not kind to me.
And I should not care.
And I should not gaze into your eyes and think about what a beautiful colour they are.
And I should not be sitting at the piano dreaming about you.
And not playing a single note.
And you are taking up every thought I have.
And my inspiration is gone.
And I can't look at my Prussian blue coat without thinking about you.
And I can't see a bird without your name coming to mind.
And I wish that you would not hate me.
And I wish that I didn't have every reason in the world to hate you.
And I wish I did hate you, because I do have every reason in the world to hate you.
And I wish you weren't making me ramble on aimlessly.
And it's all your fault that my inspiration has dried up.
And I don't know who I'm jealous of.
And there are other things I don't want you to know, but at the same time I do.
And there are moments when I wish that you loved me.
And it horrifies me that I want you to love me, because you are so cruel.
And I am disgusted.
And I don't mind.
And I think
That is because
I might possibly