Hysteria

Why must I be damned to this fate of mine,

With its tangle of roots so twisted around you,

Could you not even remember my name?

Am I not owed as little as that?

I remember yours, all of it:

A bending, winding labyrinth of lines,

That I am lost within,

Left to wander,

Searching, searching.

I want myself back.

Do I not deserve to be the one that haunts you?

With a guilt that itches under your nails,

And in your hair,

Yet you are the ghost,

Though more akin to a hallucination,

Remaining with the will of my condition alone

Unknowingly collaborating,

Not lingering with feelings unresolved,

Because you moved on, long ago

So long ago.

I am still here,

In this sunken bed,

Shivering in fits of fever and rage,

Hysteria residing,

With the cold that lies deep in my bones.

Hair and tears, cascading from my head,

In fury and regret,

Of what I wish,

What I should have said,

Perhaps that would have been enough,

To allow me to haunt you.

Will I always be cursing your name in my sleep,

As you loom at the foot of my bed,

Behind me in the mirror,

Whilst your tangible existence carries on

Happily, ignorant of my despair.

And I am screaming again:

I want myself back.