I Hate You, And I'm Sorry

I hate you.
I hate you because I can't love you.
You're like a stranger on the bus while I make my way back to school for the week,
and I'm sorry, but I can't open my heart to someone who's only going to be there for just one bus ride.

I hate you.
I hate you because I have to.
You are an empty facade, and the last blank page of that spiral notebook I just can't seem to fill,
and I'm sorry, but I don't want my heart broken, so I'd rather not try to fill the page.

I hate you.
I hate you because I'm tired of talking to a void.
You're like a spoilt payphone, one that eats up all the coins I have on me, and never bothers to apologise,
and I'm sorry, but my heart can't take any more, and I'm going to have to cut you open and take all my money back.

I hate you.
I hate you because I don't know you.
You are never you, merely masks of people you thought could be you, each a different intricate design,
and I'm sorry, but I cannot wait for you to get your act together and take them all off so I would actually know you.

I hate you.
I hate you because I can't get you to get out of my head.
You are the superglue I used on my too-small ring I had pulled apart in my haste,
and I'm sorry, but the line's still there, and it's going to take some time, but one day, I will sever this ring into two, and I will realise that it's better off with its jagged edges than with something that didn't fit in the first place.

Until then, I will hate you.
I will hate you because there's nothing else I can do to try and erase you.
You're like the stain I accidentally got on my shirt the other day, the smell of red curry still faint on the white cotton,
and I'm sorry, but I don't have a detergent strong enough to remove the stain just yet so I just have to live with it for now, and toss it out later.