I love. Hard. I love often.

I am surprised, though, that I am loved so well by so many. The many that love me do not receive my love in return. I only love the unloveable. I often wonder if these unloved things will be at my funeral. It is love that will kill me and the lack of it will pound the last nail in my coffin. The alternative is worse, I have realized. Loneliness is hell alive and death is a white horse. I dream to ride upon it, yet I fear its speed. It is a low contradiction. One that can only be brought upon by the pain of heartbreak, the pain of love. The only thing that allows for pain is love. One-thousand smiles breeds ten-thousand tears. It hurts to shed them. It hurts less to drown in them.

Will they speak of me? Will they admit how easy it was to gain my love and keep it? Will they publicize my unpleasantries… and my obsessions?

If I could haunt them, I would. If they had hearts to haunt I would spend eternity beating a drum inside of them. Until it burst. And they would know.

They would have to know that it was me who beat them.

(excerpt, short story fiction)