I hate you loving you.
I can handle that.
I hate you, and your friends, and every word that comes out of your mouth.
I hate your hair and your hands and your laugh and your voice and your jokes.
That's fine.  I know these things, I'm okay with them, really.

I hate myself.
I hate the time I put into you, and I hate that you hugged me last tonight.
I don't know how to handle my racing heart and sweaty palms.
I don't know how to hide my tears from my parents when I lie to them and tell them you were super happy to see me.
I was a predator and I've turned into a parasite and I don't know what I'm supposed to tell my diary because I promised it you still cared about me somewhere deep inside, and I'm tired of breaking promises.