And I’m wondering why I hate you so much, and why I can’t always find the words when I need them. I choke on them, trying to pronounce a hundred syllables in a single instant. No two things can occupy the same place at the same time. And yes I’m irrational and yes I’m angry: I yell and scream at you, at your coldness. I want to do violence to you, to hurt you, just to know that you can feel anything at all.

This act is not flattering on you, you can’t pull it off. Your arrogance is weak, it backs down when I counter and then asks for pity. I cannot admire something that is ashamed of itself, and I cannot be friends, let alone the lover that you ask me to be, with someone I do not admire. I am not the one you crawl to when you want to be locked in chains, I am not the one that will beat you to perpetuate this masturbatory self-pitying and I am not the one that will take care of you. I am a lover of equals, not of children.