Never have I cried because of pure, unfiltered hatred. Congratulations for breaking this mare.
Though a part of me still holds love for you and yearns for your approval and love, she’s almost dead; beaten to death by you. My own mother. I don’t believe in fortune tellers, but that mystic man in Vietnam was right. We would become strangers.
Hatred is dangerous. But at least I still feel anything for you at all. And the more I think about it, maybe its not hate. Just disappointment in myself for expecting anything more from a women who continuously wishes that I was dead. Why don’t you do the job yourself. Spare us all.