you make me fantasise

There is an invisible wall
that has been built between us.
I have named it
Neither of Us Know How to Communicate Our Feelings Effectively.
It is constructed of
all the apologies we never give each other
(note: you owe me more than I owe you)
and an increasingly obvious absence of touch.
I don’t think you understand how sad you make me.
Or how angry.
When once I fantasised about kissing you
I now fantasise about slapping you across the face.
Actually,
I still fantasise about kissing you.
But not softly and tenderly anymore:
instead,
roughly,
violently.
It is my belief that once you have fallen in love with someone
that love never leaves.
It merely transforms.
My love for you has caught fire.
When once it was like water,
when once it drowned me
(an almost peaceful death)
it now burns me alive.
Makes me scream.
I want you to make me scream.
But not in this context.
I am sick
of not telling you how I feel.
I am sick
of leaving without saying what I mean.
I am sick
of your ignorance:
you know a lot of things
but you don’t seem to know me.
Even if you say you do.
You don’t seem to understand sensuality.
Or empathy.
And believe me,
I believe in being selfish.
But this is the bad kind of selfish.
This is the kind of selfish that hurts other people.
Your name singes my tongue.
I want to cough it up.
I want to not care.
I want to not wait for an apology.
I care too much.
I hate you.
Fuck you.
You mesmerise me.
I want you to fuck me.
I want you to fuck me and then I want to
redress myself in my smouldering skin
and return to the world where
I am the One True Queen
and simply
leave you
be.