Dear Mrs. Jones,


I regret to inform you of the hatred within.

The hatred that pulses and grinds at the thought of you not being mine.

Two souls do not make one, but if I could form a butterfly, our shared wings would indeed be identical.

It’s not a matter of taste or preference, but requirements of time and deference.

There are those who wish upon a star, as they do not know who they are.

I know what burns and yearns, I know of drive and driven.

There is no lack of confidence in my choices, you must be mine,

or the hatred rejoices.


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