I don't love him, & he definitely doesn't love me. Still, he semi-fills a gaping black hole inside me. That place wants love, maybe even needs love, but love is something I"m pretty sure doesn't exist.

How odd, to suddenly glimpse a facet of me I didn't know existed. I guess it really isn't all that unusual to surprise oneself with an ugly bit of ego.

He's solid. "You're fractured." He's hopeful. "You're hopeless." He's always there. "You're half there." He's faithful. "You're so not." He's giving. "You're afraid to give." He's honest. "You lie all the time." He's loving. "You don't know how to love.

Learning by example is valid, but when you have the information to know that turning in a certain direction can lead you to a very wrong place, most of the "blame" is on the individual.

Grown up? Me? I suppose I have. Killing things, and almost killing myself, must have changed me some, after all.

I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.

You believe this is a game, and you may be right. But if you think you can play it better than me, think again.