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