And now when I really need to speak up, when I really need to tell you
something, I can't. And I bite my tongue, and I dig my nails into my
hands and I squeeze my eyes shut when the tears begin to well in them.
And what is there to do except repeat the profound feeling of hate?
But I don't hate you, I love you and that is the problem.
And you can accuse me of being cold, or cruel, or not caring, but I care.
I care so much that every stupid thing you do makes my heart sick.