A beautiful way

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I hate you.

In a beautiful way, I hate you.

And that's the best welcome I could muster.

Love is such an angry word, I use it sparingly.

It is the root of all destruction, Thrown about so casually.

What is love?

We no longer know. It has become but a memory.

But hate; so easily defined. So full of passion.

When I hate you, I think of you incessantly.

And were I to love you it would only breed contempt.

Tragic, is it not?

But hate isn't a word spoken irresponsibly.

It is a calculated thought.

A thought obsessed over.



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