I’d rather hurt myself. I’d rather understand the kind of pain I want – need – to feel than have you pretending. With your half-insults, half-ignoring me, half-hitting home. I don’t need any more halves in my life and you certainly aren’t mine. Give me your all: all the anger, all the hate, all the self loathing, and secret truths. Or take all of your incomplete’s and go home. I don’t need you like the residue of smoke on my walls. You want the truth? I wish you made it as hard to hate you as you make it to love you.