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I am not a lover, nor am I a love saint. I am a love pox. It becomes inflamed, red and swollen, and becomes a pimple. Then I randomly pick it out and scar it, and then it becomes infected again. It continues to be inflamed, red, swollen, and itchy, and then it condenses into a scar, which is then picked out ruthlessly. The cycle is endless. I don't know how big this pimple is now. I only know that it is a scar that will never heal, festering in my heart. I accept you and want you no matter what, but you ask me to let you go. What do you want me to do? I won't...