I finally see that whether my actions

are noble or immoral, the end result

is my spiritual death. I am far too prudent

and shrewd to allow myself to be hopeful.

This is a strange and terrifying proof:

to love you is to hate myself. A judgment

written in the margins will not change this truth,

it is a tautological sentiment,

a garden variety uroborous

hidden in an a priori argument:

in choosing you, I have given up my choice.

There’s nothing left for me to do, other than

to stop analyzing what I already

know to be true, or simply to stop breathing.