Sever My Tourniquet

Ganymede

You are the hurricane in my mind I thought I never needed.

I spent so much time contemplating could-haves and what-ifs

That I've been reduced to a mass of nerves

with crippling sentimentality.

You are the retrograde to my orbit.

There is not a day that goes by in which that paralyzingly frigid leer doesn't graze my memory.

Or the memory of the day your facetious grin turned into my perpetual hell.

Or the day our friendly banter became but a deadly paradox.

Or the day that it all became a matter of ambivalence.

That the realization that such self-inflicted duress post-trauma

Is another figment of my hyperactive ego.

Another diagnosis reduced to psychological jargon in that damned report.

Only so much time passes until depression's anaesthetic starts to take effect.

I had to drudge out every spectre, every phantom of feeling I had for you

And force my fingers to punch every letter on this stupid keyboard

So that they could eke out an existence somewhere other than in my thoughts.

It's funny that I feel like I have to express this two years after.

I don't wring my tear ducts free of emotion

Every time you happen to shroud it in reminiscence.

Concupiscent thoughts of cavorting about in your perfume-tinted essence

no longer plague my daydreams.

But I can't seem to shake this looming melancholy you've created.

I despise the thought of you.

I despise the fact that you most likely have no memory

of the depths you stooped to for the sake of frivolous retribution.

I despise the fact that I'm shit at expressing profound thoughts in poems.

Or just writing poems in general.

But most of all

I despise the fact that you are the biggest reminder of my awful self-pity.

Only a scapegoat.

A scapegoat.

Unrequited love really fucking sucks.

But I'm terrified that it will become my infinity.