I see right through everything you try to impress upon me.
My nose is already cut; off, my mask forever cast into the pantomime of the dead.
When I rise,
I won’t need you.
?
There are no wallflowers here,
just silent observers casing the joint.
My grandfather’s spyglass has a cracked lens – one of those monocled, steampunky brass edged gems that’s uncoordinated at best but it serves more than a purpose.
Without you, I fade into the background.
?
I am like a mage.
I draw you in, but you beckon me out from behind my crystal pillars dangling wads of money and a job offer that’s on hold.
I come, baring more than just my breasts,
I am yours.
?
Till the thrill is gone.
I am in danger of succumbing to my own spell, rebounding long before
I am discarded,
when you’ve already moved on to Nightingales and page three nostalgia,
my unnatural incantations losing their spark along the way.
Still, you make me question where I belong.
?
I stand in the orange sunset smoking a durry on my balcony,
looking down from my lofty thoughts.
My high society, contemptible self-loathing
boldly framing my red-hinged double revolving doors
that would swing wider, if it weren’t for the sunstrike that has me
blind.
?
A spectral shade
of surreal light,
trapped by my own shadowban.
?
I see right through everything you try to impress upon me.
My nose is already cut; off, my mask forever cast into the pantomime of the dead.
When I rise,
I won’t need you.
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