Love. You have hurt me in so many levels. Love has ment to me renouncing and bouncing. There are too many words said, that are heart breaking. Every time you had a chance to hurt me, you have grabbed. My soul which was given has broken again and again. But I still crave the beautiful wonderful time when you gave yourself to me, and no I'm not crazy, or am I? My brother was. Will I follow, cloak up and give up? The still, the look, the spark. It is there? And no, yes, I have erupted and shilly unsaid all those things. It is me: the giver, the beholder, the watcher, the griever. I have wantly let you. I have wantly chased that rage, wittingly purposedly fueled it. I know, you know. In my shell I await, undressed for your pity to ligh up, to grow. Do I need it? Do we? My own course is my curse. Is it a reflection of my unwanted memories? Do I seek it? Now in admiration of a girl that defies and definetely shocks, am I seeking for redemptio