i will regret this one, but for now it is my truth

i hate myself for relying on you
i hate myself for thinking of you in too many moments
wishing for things that are nothing but fantasy
i am not a fool, a witless pitying thing, full of sorrows over something that has been written about for centuries
i do not wish to weep for this, to rage for this, to long for this...
i love
but why must love be such a mind-wrecking weakness?