Madness, Obsession, But It’s Love

He loves me, he loves me not, the two simple sentences that kept repeating themselves in my head. His eyes, the most captivating shade of blue, and his smile burn in my mind present every time I close my eyes. With every reiteration of the chant a page is torn and tossed in the flames of the fire in front of me. The book the pages come from is a diary. The diary of the girl who claims to be his as if such lies would fool me. Even though I play this silly game of loves me, loves me not, I know the answer. He loves me every bit as much as I do him and anyone who can't see that is blind. I don't understand why those nosy people call it an obsession, madness, what is wrong with our love? He may not be affectionate in public but that does not mean what we don't have is strong. I smile at the thought of him. He fills my every waking moment and even encompasses some of my dreams. His touch is uncomparable and I find myself growing intoxicated at the mere thought of his skin brushing against mine. I stand, tossing the rest of that silly girl's journal into the flames, I have decided to make a surprise visit to his house. When I reach the front door of his home I frown. Something is not right, why is her car here? I knock on the door and hear a clatter of something before he opens it. My eyes drink in his appearance and my mood darkens, his clothes are disheveled and his hair is messy. Looking past him I see her standing by the kitchen counter. Fury and bitter resentment cloud my mind blacking out any scrap of rationality, any piece of compassion. When the haze of jealousy clears I stand alone in the middle of a painted red kitchen. What went wrong? Jealousy turns to misery and I throw myself upon his chest sobbing into his shoulder. He does not move, does not even breath as I cry over him. Why could he not love me as I loved him? As I lament love and misery turns to anger and hatred and the face I once adored becomes abhorrent. I can't stand the perfection of his features and I paint over them in red. The end product a beautifully gruesome picture of a love gone wrong. The last reminders of my love and hate.