the oxymoron of emotion

I felt a fire in me when he came near. 

I loathed him so much, I was turning cold. 

I never wished for someone's suffering, 

  not until I met him. 

I could feel my heart blacken, 

  at the mention of his name. 

He'll enrage me, but never face my wrath. 

For if I gave into my disgust,

  I'd turn and hate myself. 

As much as I wish him the worst, 

  I'd never be the one to deliver the pain. 

Then my despise if him would turn to me. 

My wishing may be wrong,

  but not if they don't come true. 

I hate him, all because I loved him

  and for that, I hate myself too.