I sit here in my bed, I sit here watching her face, I sit here wondering if I am cruel for this "love". I demand her to be mine, yet I do not wish to be solely hers. I tell her to leave, but I want her to stay. I want to rip out her heart and eat it, and yet I held her through the night. Her face is so pale and peaceful, nothing like last night, tears running down her face. She grabbed my arm and pushed me, I wanted to rip off her head. I have seen death, I have seen poverty and I have seen my own foot being cut off, yet the tears running down her face in frustration was more painful than all of that. There is no beauty in love. There is comfort. The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference. Love and hate is two sides of the same coin, and that coin would be called passion. I hate that I care for her, I hate that I wanted to slash open the throat of all who laid their lips on her, but I have returned home expecting her to be there nonetheless. And the disappointment when she was not there... When she would return during the night I would not question it, I would embrace her, I would her close to my body and feel her skin against mine.. and that was enough, but in my mind I could not help but to think of where she had been, envy will eat you and I fear what it is doing to me... She is the opposite of you my little leather book, she is bad for my sanity, she provokes the foulest of thoughts.. And I cannot think, I cannot rest. So answer me this once, am I cruel for this love?
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