Promethean Affection


I’m not in love with you,
Just the idea of you;
And I posit every time you look at me
There are daggers sheathed behind those eyes,
Waiting to pierce with calumny and spite.

So I’ll do what I always do:
Antagonize you;
Treat you with malice and ice,
And watch that sweet physiognomy
Fade to a consternated cry.

Then I’ll fly to your rescue
Feigning a chivalrous veneer,
And as insecurity rues the nobility,
Rendering a fine rupture in sanity,
I’ll silently mutter as I pass by,
Swearing to myself again and again:
I’m not in love with you,
Just the idea of you.


Spiteful Camaraderie

Shadow alley


You are resplendent in appearance,
Unattainable nobility the peasantry admires;
You are also the worst thing for me,
And it has nothing to do with you.

In your nature you are kind,
Accepting and sociable,
Compassionate, caring—
All that I desire.

The thing is, it does not sit well with me—
Your beauty, your personality.
Offers to help and assist do not pacify me;
In fact, they are quite perturbing.

Though I could never be cruel to you,
Mistake not my tolerance and amity.
I guess what I’m trying to say is
I wish to God I had never met you.