Crossing Paths

I remember a time when I didn't hate
the sight
the awful SIGHT of her.

She haunts my dreams
as she haunts my days—
that is to say,
dangerously random. Nary a moment
she couldn't befoul
by sticking her finger in my
open wound of a heart
and twisting (gouging!).

If I break my own heart, is that criminal?
It should be.
Drawn and quartered
to match my torn-out soul.
But remembering she exists is the worst.