Nine times the word "Love" stands alone on its own line, and no two of those appearances feel quite the same. That is the poem's engine. It opens with three flat full stops, as if the speaker is saying the word aloud to test it: "Love. / Sometimes it's nice, sometimes it's not." Halfway through, the stops turn into commas, and "Love," swings straight into a definition: "Love, / What causes me to have self doubt." Then comes a single exclamation mark, a flash of frustration, before the last full stop closes things down again. Punctuation does the job a rhyme scheme might do elsewhere, marking each attempt to pin the word down.
At its simplest, the poem is about being unable to decide whether love is good or bad. The speaker gathers evidence for both sides and ends by admitting defeat: "I don't know what to feel anymore." The central idea is that love's pleasures and pains are not separate episodes but one tangle, and that the confusion is part of the experience rather than a failure to understand it. The poem is not after a verdict. It wants to show what it is like to hold both at once.
The stanza break after "crying my eyes out" splits the poem into two halves that mirror each other. Before it, love causes self-doubt and sleepless nights. After it, love is "that thing that makes me feel wanted" and "what makes me happy cry." Self-doubt is answered by feeling wanted, and tears of despair are answered by tears of joy. Crying is the poem's one recurring image, appearing three times, and its sharpest detail is that the same act of the body can carry opposite meanings. Tears alone cannot tell you which kind of love is at work, which is exactly the speaker's problem.
There is no rhyme and no steady meter, so rhythm comes from line length. The early lines are short and balanced around "Sometimes": "Sometimes it's nice, sometimes it's not." By the third, the sentence has swollen into a long run-on: "Sometimes you spend every waking moment thinking about them. And when you aren't, you're crying because you know they won't love you back." There is no room to breathe, which is how obsession feels. The pronouns shift too. The opening is all "you" and "they," a general-truth voice that keeps the pain at arm's length. Once the commas arrive, it becomes "me" and "my," and the speaker admits who the poem is really about.
The ending is where the poem thinks aloud. After the trailing dots of "anymore...", the speaker doubles back: "Unless that's the point. To feel loved." The second sentence is a fragment, like a thought arriving mid-breath, and its verb is "feel," not "be." Earlier the heartbreak was about being loved back, about "they" who "won't love you back." But the second half already admitted that "people have it for me." Judging by the text, the final line suggests a move from needing one particular person's love to valuing the sensation of being loved at all, even when it comes tangled with confusion. Nothing is solved. The bare "Love." that closes the poem returns without a verdict.
Nothing is known here about the poet beyond the username thatonekidsusannah, so the "I" is best read simply as the poem's speaker. The rough edges, "can not longer" and "my self" split in two, are left unpolished, and that suits a voice that sounds like someone typing as they feel. The split "my self" even happens to echo the poem's subject, a self pulled in two directions.
The poem matters because it resists the tidy lesson. Plenty of writing about love picks a side, either celebrating it or warning against it. This poem shows how often the feeling refuses to be sorted into good and bad, and it trusts that saying so honestly, in plain words and one repeated word, is enough.