They say that killing is immoral. A sin.

And that sinning causes one to lose their grasp on reality; on what is right or wrong.

They say that sinning causes blindness, a veil over what is true.

A sinner, they say, is without a heart. A heartless bastard til death.

There is no remedy for sinning, except for the realization of your tainted soul and lack of heart.

That's no help at all.

Admitting that you're wrong is like stabbing yourself in the chest. Twice.

Taking another person's life is considered immoral, a sin; forever carved as an ugly pattern into the depths of your pathetic soul.

But breaking a person's heart is considered normal. It's considered part of the circle of relationships.

You break a heart.

So what? Move on and find another.

But some hearts were never meant to be broken; they were meant to be kept in mint condition, never touched, never scarred.

But it's these hearts that break the easiest: so innocent, so clean. It's these hearts that are the most fragile, most vulnerable.

They require extreme love and care, as if handling a piece of thin glass.

If dropped, it would shatter into pieces.

Pieces too small to try to put back together again.

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To me, breaking a heart is the same as killing.

Both are cold-blooded actions, with high disregard to the feelings of the other party.

Both require the ability to feel emotionless when committing the crime.

Both result in the victim to plummet to death; both figuratively and literally.

I'm here, sitting in the dark corners of my room, feeling sorry for myself and for my aching heart, or lack thereof.

If I had a heart, it'd be empty; void of any emotion; void of being capable of continuing to beat.

Everything around me has lumped together, into a big, grey, formless shadow.

My eyes are hollow; lifeless. They've dried out, as the tears that needed to be shed are all gone.

All I can do is sit here, helpless and deserted, feeling sorry for my sorry self.

When I think of her, I feel nothing close to the emotion of love.

I feel the emotion of hate, I feel the bubbling lava boiling inside of me, ready to burst at any moment.

My anger has never ceased to subside, nor will it show signs of weakening.

I feel like a cold-blooded murderer: incapable of feeling any emotions.

I've completely closed myself off.

The cheap, neon LED open sign has been permanently turned off.

I bet if I took an x-ray right now, there'd be a big, gaping hole in the place where my heart used to be.

I played right into her plot to destroy me. I was naive, idiotic, falling too easily into something they call love.

At least, I thought it was love.

It wasn't. It was deceit and revenge sickeningly twisted into a mask of "love."

Unbelievable, isn't it? Unbelievable what the human is capable of doing to each other.

Life is a cruel, cruel thing.

There are still traces, strong traces, of her lying around.

Her scent still lingers in my nose, her kisses still linger on the tip of my tongue, and her touch still haunts me.

I'm tortured. What had happened to happily ever after? Or the glass slipper at the of midnight?

Huh.

I guess that's why they're called fairy tales: stories for the feeble and naive-minded.

At the end of the day, I ask myself the same old question all over again: is this really worth it?

But then, I see the longing in her glittering, innocent eyes. A different her, that is.

The one before her is long gone, probably wasting her days away as a hooker in some seedy bar. Not that I care.

No, the her I'm talking about treats me like a human, not like a dog, or a toy that can just be disposed of after one use. She acknowledges my feelings, my needs, my desires. She truly cares for me.

She is my savior, my ally in this struggle within me, to realize that things can turn out well, that the world can be colorful, and not just plain grey. My goddess.

I never want her to leave me.

She never will leave me.

The devil inside of me has been repressed; beaten.

For now.

Who knows when it might come back to life again?