Love is not a choice. Love is like a arrow. Not a cupid arrow, because cupid doesn't exist. A wooden one. One that can splinter if you raise-aim-fire at something too hard. Love is easily splintered, with pieces stabbed into your finger. the more you try to pull it out, the deeper it gets into your skin until you know you'll never get it out. I know, harsh for something about Love, but this was the best thing for me to explain the pain and hurt you have when your in love.

Love is also like a pomegranite. As you saw it in half, you see the juicy, red seed encased in the sour white outside. As you plop the teardrop in your mouth, you notice the fingers stained with blood and know that it won't come out for a very long time. But even with the stain that makes you look like you dipped your fingers in reddish-purplish paint, you know it was worth it. Wasn't it?

Who is Love?