I used to think love was a weakness.
It was a devastating curse
Which infected everyone I knew,
And turned them pining, sad,
Vulnerable.

And then I thought it was fate.
It was an inevitable trial,
That some could survive,
Some could fight,
But few would win.

For a time, love was strength.
It was the source of energy,
The breeze in the heat,
Or the charm of the night,
Something beautiful.

But then, love turned bitter.
It was laced with hatred,
Pierced by jealousy
And cries of the heart,  
Poisoned tears.

But now I see that love is torture.
It’s the weakness that saps strength,
The fate that you can’t escape,
The bitter pain tainting the words,
“I love you.”

And the worst part is, despite it all,
That I do.