I died a thousands deaths because of him.
Though he slay me, it was never really his fault –
the way he invaded my dreams
so that the pain was no longer confined to waking hours
but now also became a current in the background of my sleep time.
Sleep or wake, he plays on my mind.
Yet it cannot be. Must not be.
Fire roaring in my bones: it threatens to devour me, him,
any fool who wanders too close.
Is this even real? How can this be normal?
How can I dare to comprehend the saccharine and hateful love poetry
as if romance were more than a lie?
Dare I open myself to think it more than delusions?
It’s too late for me.
What might have been will never be.
This is little more than a war between heart and mind,
temptation and truth,
flesh and moral conjecture.
I died a thousand deaths because of him.
And even though he slay me, I doubt he even knows.
18 June 2011 and 19 June 2011