Nonfiction Poetry

I Refuse to Be Consumed — Pt.1

by Gustave Deresse

I am melancholic; you may know it.

I haven’t eaten in thirty one hours; it’s by choice. It’s a kink for delayed gratification.

These are rough times, you don’t need to be told.

Pandemic days.

One way or another, most of us are affected.

Except…

I was fine with it all. Learning, growing, creating…

Time is valuable.

Until I was reconnected with my love, from which I am physically kept apart.

I know there are ways, for us to be rejoined, if I apply myself.

I’d aim to move to Alaska, if asked.

If I could pull it off, of which…we’ll see.

I don’t really want to.

I hate feeling a need for her to be my everything, to be consumed by her being.

I risk losing myself.

I can’t focus on anything. She is perfection, and imperfection, as beautiful and chaotic as the universe itself.

We’ve agreed that we need each other. Make of it what you will, but I enjoy being there for others, and wouldn’t mind being taken care of in return.

Odd thing to get defensive about.

But I hate it. I’ve tried so hard to push her away. I believe she has tried the same. I believe for different reasons.

I told her everything. Anything could happen.

Yet, we can’t seem to shake each other. Better than rat poison and tar. Still toxic.

We’re often talking over the phone; sometimes we make and trade poetry; I can’t figure out if her new boyfriend is meant to punish me.

She seems to enjoy my distress, but that doesn’t mean anything. She still talks to me every day, and accepts anything I wish to say to her. I’m usually respectful.

My heart is in anguish. It shouldn’t be, I deserved this. Whether it’s true or not, I deserved this.

She suffered a month of crippling indecisiveness on my part, though I never really felt unsure; “I” didn’t singularly exist.

It’s horrible! You know nothing of this insanity, and I’ll never tell. I hate writing about myself like this. Same goes for the people I love.

For yes, I love her. I hate it with a passion, but it’s true.

She doesn’t enjoy this declaration of hate, but neither does she turn her back on me. I’m starting to understand her fits of “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!!!”

I should release her, but this would devastate her; emotions should never have become involved. I cared too much, I wanted to support her. Now I’m ensnared.

I’m grateful for compartmentalization; the heart doesn’t always need to hurt.