“I started hating you for everything that made me love you. I hated how lowkey, hollow, and discreet you were. I hated how your open sores immediately closed as if I were an absolute stranger to them. I hated your flaws. I hated every ache and every scar that had a story because I was no longer the reader and you were no longer the artist/writer. You closed the book and left me on an unfinished chapter. I hated your private hell. I hated dancing with the devil when I found out you were him. You were the creator before you became the destroyer. I hated the poetry that was bruised by your existence. I hated your stories. I hated my stories. I hated our stories. I hated it. I hated it. I fucking hated it. I hated so much that it reminded me how much I still love(d) you. I miss you but fuck you.”