You don't belong in my nervous system.

I hope I don't see you in the morning.
I hope our paths never cross again.
My stomach flips at the idea of running into you,
of turning the corner and seeing a tall figure,
of seeing brown eyes glance down.

And if you said "hello", I wouldn't say anything.
Because you don't deserve acknowledgement.

If your name comes up tomorrow,
I don't know how I'll react.
If I'll be psychoanalyzed
by the way I sit or cross my arms,
if my anger will refuse to settle in my bones
and instead infect the space shared.

I'm scared I'll get defensive.
That I'll sound argumentative,
my remarks inflammatory.
I'm scared I won't be able to hold my tongue,
choosing patience over vengeance.
I'm scared the way you left will be
imprinted in my memory forever.

I don't want you to control my sanity.
I don't want you to be the reason my breath catches,
legs shaking as the panic sets in.

I'm not going to give you the reins.