On this wet summer night, an abundance of sorrows flood my eyes to spill unto yours. The inner serpent coils around my fragile throat to choke these unforgiving words from exiting, but my hand dances free to spill ink that has brewed heavily in my heart since the moment you left.

To write that I love you is to cut off my own hand for the punishment of spreading falsity. Instead, I must reveal a greater truth; a truth which has burdened my soul; a truth which has eradicated my hope of free will. The truth is: I loathe you.

I loathe you.

I loathe you.

I loathe you.

A thousand times I say it, and a thousand more I will. For I cannot sleep without a glimpse of us meandering together through the collapsed ruins of our memories. I cannot near the daffodil trails without a whiff of your gentle cadence and lavender soft touch; the herald to my spring. I cannot salvage the nectar of honey for it now sowers with a lingering reminder of the taste of your sweetened lips. I feel forever lost when trying to find the part of me missing which is you and you only; floating by like a monarch butterfly; suckling life like a honey bee; swaying like the grasses in a dance with the winds. Yet, I remain cocooned in my thick shell whilst you broke free from yours and flew far away from the caterpillars who continued to drown in hope, like I. See, I am only a caterpillar wrapped in its cocoon, but you are now a butterfly. What was supposed to be ‘us’ became ‘you’, and ‘I’ and now I feel emptier than a great winter sky.

But as you grow larger, remember, my flesh, we were once the same.

And as you float higher, remember, my breath, we were once the same.

And if you meet another, I hope you will loathe them, too;

Because you deserve to love as much as I have loved you,

my dearest,

my self,

my Maudlin.