They say love and hate
Are a coin.
Dealt only by the luck of a flip.
to me they are:
Two Ink pots,
Shattered.
Spreading.  
Towards each other,
Mingling,
Seeping,
Mixing.
Leaving their dark stains,
As you struggle
to wipe them away.
Indifference is the
Quill now useless.

Spilling them in
The first place is up to you.