I hate the way you talk to me,
and the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car,
I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big dumb combat boots
and the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick,
it even makes me rhyme.
I hate the way you’re always right,
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh,
even worse when you make me cry.
I hate it when you’re not around,
and the fact that you didn’t call.
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you,
not even close,
not even a little bit,
not even at all.
I know most people would say that you officially became a star to the world after Brokeback Mountain. But to us who grew up with you, much earlier, when they slowly focused on your face as Julia Stiles read you that poem.
I’m sorry people think you gave up.