Three in the morning.
And I am incandescent,
For a few brief seconds.

They say I am naive,
Over-sensitive,
Quick to react but slow to consider.
You never change,
But I always trick myself into thinking you will.
Hoping that for once this won’t make me tear down another photo,
Replace it with a brick inside my chest.
I am ever turned towards you,
Needle to your true north,
When all I want is the vast horizon, drifting in an endless sunrise, unmoored.

You are not two-faced.
That would be a compliment.
You are ever yourself, ever the star, ever the underdog, ever the altruist, ever the expert.
And yet my frustration confuses you.

You are wild not because the entropy of the universe lives within you,
No beauty of nature reflected in you.
You do not heed consequences—
Why should you when I take the brunt of them?—
And so you are free to play and piss and pose as you please.
A creator of stories by default, a repeating track of your own follies gussied up and redistributed.
Why bother with your B-sides?

I breathe and try to sleep,
Try to tamp down the fires of my discontent.
Cool girl, pretty girl, ambitious girl, glimmer.
Your sparkle is but dust in my eye.
I care not out of love, but out of habit.

jacksgreyson, Untitled 2018-09-02

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