Hate by J.L. (Writing Our Stories)

He climbs into us through any open passage, just so he can crawl his way into our chest. He gives off a smell of rotten eggs and sulfur. He grips our hearts with hands as hot and hard as fire and brimstone, and some may say with the way he looks and smells that he could have only been fashioned in the deepest, darkest depths of the devil's den, and it may just be true because the purity of the anger and despair radiating off him could have come only from a place as dark and evil as hell itself. As he takes a hold of our hearts he begins to radiate his very essence into us, developing us from the inside out until it becomes too much for us to bear and we give up fighting, allowing him to take full control over us, taking over us to the point of irrationality, until we can no longer fight him, and he takes over completely, using us to cause mayhem, and by the time he lets go of our hearts to flee and find a new victim, it is too late for us by now, for we have already hurt the ones we love most, and we ourselves have become hurt to the point almost beyond repair.