A Tornado named Torment

I wrote this one probably about a year and a half ago, in my journal, and I never shared it because it was too intense and too personal, but now, I suppose, in my recent purging of poetry and writing I want to share. Over the top of the poem I wrote a Shakespeare quote, "past reason hunted and no sooner had, past reason hated". So, enjoy:

Here's to you,
you asshole,
and to me,
your hobby.
Here's to an endless train
of thoughts,
devoted entirely to you,
steaming fast,
headed
nowhere.
Here's to the
sparkle in your eye,
that speaks worlds to me,
unspoken to the world.
Here's to hopelessness
so hopeless it becomes a joke,
and how seriously I take it.
Here's to a passion
without rest
and a yearning
without satisfaction.

You're a drag on a cigarette.
I breathe you in,
and breathe you back out,
and you feel good,
but my heart is become black.
And I don't care.
In my mind, I tear
your life apart,
simply to accommodate my own,
and it's so easy.
And I don't care.
I don't care.
And yet I care too much.
You are the object of my desire,
you remain a lottery,
the odds are stacked against me,
I cannot win.
Still you are the object of my passion.
An object nonetheless.

You hold a strange
power over me,
which I fail to fight.
Because of you I hate myself,
my inability to resist.

My mind a tornado,
I call it torment.
Debris of me,
of you,
of a distorted world,
and a one-track mind.
Here's to you:
fuck you.
And to me:
the same.