A firey hatred burns my insides.
As if I could cry as hard as I could,
but not even that could dampen the flames.
It hurts every ounce of my being to love everything you do.
Every scent you let linger is my porthole to escape.

Oh, I indulge in you every waking moment.
I meant nothing by it when i told you last night
that i hate you.
I'm so worried that you will be waiting around every corner.
But I want you to be waiting.
I'm so worried that you will forget about me.
So please remember.

If I could just admit it for once in my sick life
of pride and hunger
that I do indeed adore every move you make,
every hair out of place,
every hand you lay on my porcelain, fragile heart.

Could this be easier and harder?
Could this be anymore wrong and right?
Could this even exist?