Love is worse than hate.

It hurts more.

It deceives.

It lies.

It may be there,

But it sure as hell brings pain and destruction,

In it’s path.

I hate to love, but I love to hate.

Is that such a bad thing?

Does that make me a monster?

Love will never find it’s way back to me.

Love to me is dead.

It always will be.

My heart will remain as cold as ice,

My soul will remain a dying fire.

Love burnt a hole where any good used to be.

I am no longer the person I was.

The person I am remains in the deep and distinct darkness,

Burning in the depths of hell.

But if I’m the monster,

Love is my creator.