Malignant Love

I want a malignant kind of love.

A love that consumes and saddens. A love that is so painful that the only joy that can be sucked from it, is in the every day appreciation of deliberate imperfections. A love that makes the world stop in its unfairness, in its ability to take over and create an illusion of hope when the inevitable is inevitable.

A malignant kind of love, that challenges me to live, in the now for ever because tomorrow may or may not be. A challenge to keep hope and bask in the day not of the uncertainty but of the unknowing. The kind of love that makes me questions the past, but not the future.

A malignant kind of love that intrigues me to get to know myself, and forces me to question all that I ever was or thought I could be. A love that pushes me to fight for what is right and fend off what is wrong, the kind of love that makes questioning a part of my routine-- and answering part of the enigma.

A malignant kind of love that rescues me in my shortfalls, and stops me from falling into the pitfalls of my soul. A love that caresses, and softens my hard exterior and opens my mind to love and be loved.

A malignant kind of love, that has no cure, but love itself. The only antidote would be more of the same, until it consumes to a point of death, when all that is left, is a memory in the mind of those left behind, of a time which was spent in a state of perpetual bliss, because the inevitable came true.

I want a malignant kind of love.