You. I hate you, and despise you from my very core. I'm sorry I ever got to know you. You're the biggest piece of scum I've ever interacted with, I'm past the point of even feeling sorry for you. Fuck you, seriously.
You. You two-faced little thing. You look so harmless, but now I know better. What are you getting out of this? And why are you playing the double agent? I know what you're after - don't you realise it's never going to happen? You're deluding yourself if you think it's possible - grow up, wake up and smell the coffee.
You. I don't know what to do with you, really. I don't know how to handle myself, I don't know whether things are going right or whether things have always been wrong, from the very beginning. This isn't good for me, and I need to get out. But why is that so horribly hard for me to do?
You. I feel like you are the one true constant in my life, you're the one person I can be myself around - myself with all my quirks, randomness, whiny-ness, and bitchiness. What we've shared together - do most people get that? People change, therefore - relationships, too, must change. With us, I just don't know anymore. And the strange thing is, something tells me you feel the same way as I do.
You. You're the best friend I could ask for. You listen to all my complaints, put up with all my moods, and bear with me patiently through all my confusion. I love you, sometimes I don't know what I would do without you. Thank you for always being there.
Edward Munch's painting is so, so appropriate right now. I need to scream and scream, yell till my mouth is sore, shout till my lungs are tired, I want to wail at what's going wrong. But I know that's not possible, so I shall settle for being brave, and putting up a mature, unemotional, and unaffected front. For isn't that what I always do?