I would rather not even have a shit list, but guess what: You're on it. 

You whom I dearly have loved for as long

as you have been alive. You whom I treasured and adored, 

knowing my foibles, your foibles, our shared foibles.

Now I am tired of glossing over your meant vitriol, your

cemented belief that you are better than those who have not

sold their pretty and possible essences in exchange for 

a license to be unkind. I hate writing this. I hate feeling this. 

I had to wrestle so many layers of fake selves to find the words.