I had a little flower and I burned the petals one by one. Could the flower feel pain? I poked pins into the center and replanted the flower. It was my hate. And it grew. The roots ran deep. I fed it my blood and I fed it my tears. Stem became trunk. The pins; branches I could sit in. My little flower had become a tree. Her flower was pink. She planted it with love but it withered and died. She fed it affection but it could not thrive. My tree became a forest. Love is fragile. Love is hard to grow. Anything can choke it out, break it, shatter it. But hate is strong. Hate can plant itself and never truly go away. Mine was the strongest. Stronger than her love. The branches reached the clouds, its roots; the fiery underworld. Hate is powerful. In the end that’s all that can drive you. Love will always bring you down, but hate will pick you up and dust you off again.