Sometimes I love you, and sometimes I hate you. Sometimes there’s this urge in me to write down my feelings in a letter letting you know how you’re in every word of mine. That how even though we don’t know each other anymore, you’re with me every step of the way. The truth can liberate. However, I can’t shake the fear that it won’t win me your heart, and nor will it erase the shortcomings of the past. I could put down into words the meaning of your smile and what it does to my heart every time I see your angel face, but I’m pretty sure it would just leave me hanging like before. Still, what’s the point in holding back when one day we’ll be nothing more than dust, and the madness you put in me will be lost like everything else? What’s the point in pretending I’m nothing but weak in my need of you? The truth doesn’t pay my bills, and nor does it bring me happiness, but it separates me from the machine, and from those who bow down to it, and that’s what counts. Just who would ever want to be like them? Them with their dead hipster faces and their dead hipster haircuts and their dead hipster sex. Them with their empty souls as they pose their lives away trying so desperately to prove to the world that they have meaning when in reality they’re as dead as they were before their dead fathers fucked their dead mothers and they ended up just like their dead brothers and sisters. Maybe I still seek you out because there’s light in you. Maybe it’s because you’re the only one that makes me feel alive in this deadened hive, and without you, the insects win, and I lose.