Do you know how much he hates me? He hates me so much, that he entertains plans of orchestrating suffering in me to a staggering degree of loss, and self-questioning doubt of all that is. It is in his plans to degrade my person to all who are strangers to me, as well as acquaintances, friends and family. His range of hurt he will connive could only be described as iniquitous evil as to how it will scrub my face in the dirt of human shame and horror. He hates me to a degree which would have me lifted up only to slam me down so hard as to break my body and my will. He wishes to zap my strength with his lies of love, trust and loyalty, so all orientation and order may fly from me amongst the truth. He chooses to hurt me behind closed doors, telling hidden secrets of my weaknesses to his prey, to laud them by lowering me while I am not present. He shames me with the honesty his body shows. I am shamed, to hurt, to see no love. Not mine does he wish for, though he plays me, so he may live another day to hate me. To love me would be to free me, but the only thing he loves is to hate me.