I like celebrating monthiversaries, as corny as it sounds. Today we make three months and I couldn’t be anymore happy, except, I’m not. I’m keeping my composure even though you haven’t said it yet. I dislike you just as much as I love you, but enough to put it in the spam box of my mind. I need a refill of what you take at the start of your day to ignore me the way you do every morning when our goodnights aren’t so good because if it felt better than this, I wouldn’t mind. And it burns the way you seem so happy because I’m not the reason so my shell cracks a little. The hospitals’ beginning to feel more like home now a days. I think I’d rather have x-rays and pills than you.