i know how the conversation ends.

The restaurant is empty on a tuesday afternoon when familiarity tells me I will die not of old age, but instead a sour soul. I know how the conversation ends before it has even begun. The branches of me wherein your humour entangles so manages your fury, though equally as much, I bear your bitterness. To hate you is to hate myself, though to embrace you is the same.

I even resent

The utmost forgivable

Parts you've given me