I have not been happy in nearly a year. You know why. I do it to myself. I don’t have a memorable excuse, and if I did it would take hollowness to make ring. I am full, so full, with this hatred that is love thinly veiled. I crush you under the heel of my foot, but you’re stone. I wish I could crush you into a mush I can mold. I wish you didn’t say what you said to my face, or force me into horrible situations and pretend to be a sanctimonious host.