Love hurts so much. I love love. That’s what a therapist once told me. I love loving things. I love art. I love beauty. I love people. I love love. It’s a blessing and a curse I guess. I fall in the hole of love so quickly. I miss the first step, fall down a flight, and slam into a place of illogic confusion. I suddenly feel the fear of losing the love I’ve found, more than I do actually feeling the love I’ve found. I already accept the end of love before I enjoy the love. I await the death of love. The grim reaper creeps behind my shoulder and tells me all of things that will come. My greatest fears. It makes me distrust and worry. I manifest these things, and ultimately my new love starts disintegrating. Piece by piece, I destroy it, with my fear. There will eventually come a time when they will bore of me, and I expect it. I dread it. I don’t feel attractive enough, or worthy of love. I love love, but I don’t feel like I deserve it. I miss it when I think I have it. I miss love while I love it. I fear love just as much as I love it. Love is beautiful, but love is terrifying.