Sick Love

I cannot sleep any more.
I cannot but think of you.
(I cannot bear to address myself to you
which is why I shall use the third person.)
Wrapped up in these sweat-soaked sheets,
my fever-racked brain drifting in and out
of lucidity, I know only desire and rage.
A desire to rip her from limb to limb,
to inflict animal lust on her smug little frame,
to fling her trampled heart into the town square
and light bonfires of it.  No act of violence
or profanity would seem to satiate me. For
I am not moved by just lust, or mere vendetta.
The sickness of my mind stems from life's
lack of meaning, from the lack of logic
in a woman's body, from the anarchy of her sex.
I hate her, I resent the vacuum she leaves.
I spite the scent of her hair that no longer lingers.
I despise the impression her body could have left
on my crumpled sweat-soaked stained sheets,
or the indentation of her head on my pillow.
I know no feeling save for my visceral hatred of her
dimpled smile, of her tousled hair, of the dribbles
at the corner of her happy mouth, of her warm wet breath.
I should like very much to stifle her in a death-embrace
to rend her from limb to limb for her treacherous disgrace.
Perhaps healthier times shall bring me healthier thoughts.
For now, a few pills, loneliness and more spite it must be.