I blame you. I blame you for this abscess. I blame you for this abscess of rage, hurting and swelling, making me feel all alone, repressed, deformed. I resent your squinting and the mocking, lifeless glare from your lamp - the lamp that I gave you. And you do not even think to share it, share some light, some hope, some comfort. Share with me what I have shared with you, you refuse. You are a child. I detest you when you speak, I detest your cold and unfeeling tone, unsympathetic and ridiculing. It makes humour of my plight, it reminds me of how alone I really am. I abhorr you, I resent you, I hate you because you are in your box and you do not let me in. You do not share it, you keep it to yourself. You are selfish. Your first aid box is for yours to use, and I bandage myself grudgingly. I bear a raging grudge against you, your convenient deportment from me, from my acid stew of suffering. You protect yourself, you keep Monday’s ironic joy to yourself. You boil it and you have it on your plate. Your plate runneth of the fungus that is your ego. I am going to make you cry. I’m going to make you cry in my place. I have no tears to cry, no voice to seek help, no hope in this lonely darkness. You will cry for me. I will spend all my money making you cry. You will drown in my darkness and your guilt that is rightfully yours. I will entrap you in your own selfishness. You will feel my tears in yours. You will resent your self on my behalf. You will overflow with abscesses that you scratch into your own. I am going to make you rot in your vile dishonesty and lust. You will feel. You will feel it all.