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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