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.