Still, I wonder. I suppose I'll always wonder.

She said... she said that when he first arrived, he still loved me. Honestly? I never thought he loved me. Needed me, desired what I gave, liked me, sure. Not love. Not when I'd always been the nightmare, not when I'd fucked up his head, certainly not if he's blaming me for his feral nature. But she said he loved me.

I'm going to be thinking about that for a while. *shrug* Love is a strange thing. If he did love me, then for the first time I feel sorry for him. No wonder he ran to her. No wonder she can hold him now.

I've been saying this in one form or another all of my life: to love me is to be hurt by me. Even if I'm trying not to, sooner or later I'll hurt anyone who loves me, and anyone I love, in some way. They may be a better person for it afterward but that doesn't change the fact that it HURTS, that I view love as a weakness to be exploited, that it's something I use rather than something I respect.

Yes, I love. Yes, I desire to be loved. And yes, despite that I believe love is a weakness. I fight against it. I've never wanted to love, never tried to fall in love with someone, never thought 'I would be a better person if I loved other people more'. I've always wanted to love less, to love wisely, to be able to turn it off, close the floodgates, bar the door.

The only ones who can hurt me are the ones I love. *wry grin* Everyone else? My teeth are sharp, my walls are high, my will is firm. But love... love sneaks in, and then bites you.