I am too little myself, too much everyone else, and nobody anybody would like.
I don’t know how you put up with me.

I talk too much, and say nothing and try to stop holding my breath.
We watch movies and I run my fingers through your hair.

Isn’t that what you want?
Isn’t that what you expect?

I run my fingers through your hair, and your head is in my lap, and
I wonder if you can tell that I am faking.

They expect this. This intimacy and affection.

I want to hate you so bad. I think I do, but I’d never tell you.

You are so fragile, with your breakable bones and blonde hair, and feelings easily hurt
the way you don’t understand my need for truths, and reassurance.

I hate your morning breath, and the way you hide things, and the way you always listen and go along with me.
Can’t you tell I am not your friend?
Can’t you tell I am not your confident?

I wish we had never met, and you would step off the pedestal I have placed you on.
I hate your perfection, and how you know just what to say, and how I hate I can’t hate you.

And now whenever I see you, all I think is of how I’m going to make you hate me too.