Punishment for passion

I hate you. Your lack of presence is a constant punishment.  I remember the first moment I laid eyes on you because I wish I could erase it from my life.  For once you behold perfection or your interpretation of such nothing else will do.  You have ruined me without even knowing. .  My ears grow deaf to the world around me drowning out all sound----muting the emotion filled pleas and sweet murmuring of temporary lovers pouring out thier hearts to me, all I hear is the faint whisper of your voice.  My eyes refuse to accept the vision of another standing in the place where you should----making me blind to thier obvious attempts at shilvary and romance.  My memory won't let me forget you.  I hear echos of your laughter intertwined with mine as scenes from a time long gone play over and over in my head, mocking me and robbing me of joy in my everyday life.  My body craves you more than any drug.  Your presence is an aphrodisiac.  When you look at me through those empty eyes that are so cleverly trained to mask your emotion I feel naked--exposed--humiliated--alive--sexy all in one rush of a millisecond.  All these things my eyes, my ears, my memory, my body I can live without for the pain that they cause me.  If by some miracle I could rid myself of these things with a breath my suffering would not end.  My heart would see to that.  That is the place that I unknowingly and unwillingly have given you to live.  This is my punishment for passion.  This diseased heart of mine.  It has been infected by a growing desire for you.  This cursed organ, deity of emotion pumping corruption through the organs of my sacred beautiful body.  Involuntarily action purposely infecting me further with every constricting papultary motion.   I am ruined.   I  am a fool.  Who but a fool desires to the deepest of their core that which is so deadly?   You are a poison.  To you I am a ghost.  A face in the crowd of a million or more admirers bombarding you with hollow words of praise induced by moments of selacious behavior and alcohol.  To you I am a ghost.  A trace image of something I once was but have never been since.  To you I am a ghost.  A distant friend in a distant place a girl in passing an unfamiliar face.  To you I am a ghost.  An e-mail contact a myspace face.  I hate you.  I hate you because you don't dare to know or to think how you have infected all I hold sacred with your smile.  You don't see me for who I am or who I want to be for you.  You don't understand  why I constantly seek your recognition through time and space.  I hate you.  I hate knowing that I am not a part of your world and may never be.   I am being held hostage by my uneexpressed nonreciprocated feelings.  Grasping for any sign that you acknowledge my existence.  You make me sick.  I am sick of myself, I want to vomit.  Maybe the purging will rid me of the parasite that is you.  Then I can move on with my life unaffected.  You send me abbreviated messages with false images of hope.  Serving only as a lifeline to feed the infection.  I wish I could give you my heart.  Then you could live with the longing and confusion, let it fester in you.  I am tired of wanting you so much.