Desolate

Emptiness, cold, dark, blissful emptiness is all what is clear. I am hated, only by the raw emotions of my own nightmare. Myself. I am my main source of pain. Where can I turn to when no one can listen; cares to do more than simply hear? Those whom I believed I could turn to hate when I turn to them and would rather destroy them self than turn to me. What have I done wrong? What have I done to cause such a crack beneath my fortitude? Where all the love I was fooled to believe I had seeps out with every breath; every disguised laugh, every instance I chose to give even more than I will ever be given. I am alone in a world where kindness is not expected nor wished for, but simply traded unconditionally.