The thing about love is that it breaks you, repeatedly.
Love,
Pain,
Pleasure,
Memories,
eventually all their meanings blur together.
It burns you,
Scorns and scolds you
but it's a bruise you'd die to keep,
So you hit the hematoma
And savor the groan inducing ache,
A masochistic moan.
Jealousy is the love of another,
And the hatred of self.
Passion fuels it.
