I always knew I'd loved him more. He knew it, too. And he can't handle it. I hate being god. I get too hurt falling in love with the mortals. Did I need for him to say that I wasn't the one for him? Did I need for him to deny his words, to admit-or at least intimate-his 'lies'? All I needed was hope. Such a small thing. Hope and attention, maybe. Now both-no, now EVERYTHING has been ripped away from me. Again.
Maybe I can convince someone to kill me. Then at least I wouldn't be breaking my promise. I'd like to keep it, but I'd really rather be dead.
Fuck it all. I wish there were stronger words. I wish I knew them all. "The love I bear thee can afford no better term than this:" I'm not capable of stopping once I start. All I'll ever be able to achieve-and even this is a farfetched fantasy-is a state of perpetually ignoring it.
Fucking liar. Fucking world. Fucking life.
"The curse of the superior intellect."
The even more formidable curse of being me.
Laters