The Scrolling.
Overkill.
I did it again.
The incessant scrolling of profiles,
Human lives,
and their darkest desires.
It may not be considered fishing,
No more than the use of dynamite
to blow wide open
the gates of your disguise.
A suicidal attempt
at finding reciprocity,
Like narcissus
before his great demise.
And yet I throw my hand,
wide open at you,
while drowning
in front of your very eyes.
I spoke more than I should have,
and from places so dark,
that ought to have never seen the light,
in the cave of lies that is my heart.
The incessant internal blabber
of a sickened body type,
magnetized to all others
by the spleen of urban life.
Like a Virginia creeper
I spread all over,
and absorb without filter,
all that is good, genuine and clever,
all that is rot, grit and bitter.
I try not to materialize
the obsession I have for you,
but like I said earlier,
I've let go more than I should have.
Yet I owe you no apology
I should not have to cry
I should not have to ask for mercy
at the sight of your eyes
for you are not mine
and we have not exchanged
nor the taste of our lips
nor the shivering of our skin
not even the blink of an eye
my dreams of holding you at night
are forbidden
and to play with such raw imaginary purity
is an ugly disfigurement of reality
i am not yours,
all disappointment,
pain and doubt included,
packaged in a ball of light
and the definition of human confusion.
You have not chosen me
I owe you no explanation
I should not have to struggle
I should not beg for confirmation
because we are not one.
why is it so?
I did it again.
The incessant scrolling of profiles,
Human lives,
and their darkest desires.
It may not be considered fishing,
No more than the use of dynamite
to blow wide open
the gates of your disguise.
A suicidal attempt
at finding reciprocity,
Like narcissus
before his great demise.
And yet I throw my hand,
wide open at you,
while drowning
in front of your very eyes.
I spoke more than I should have,
and from places so dark,
that ought to have never seen the light,
in the cave of lies that is my heart.
The incessant internal blabber
of a sickened body type,
magnetized to all others
by the spleen of urban life.
Like a Virginia creeper
I spread all over,
and absorb without filter,
all that is good, genuine and clever,
all that is rot, grit and bitter.
I try not to materialize
the obsession I have for you,
but like I said earlier,
I've let go more than I should have.
Yet I owe you no apology
I should not have to cry
I should not have to ask for mercy
at the sight of your eyes
for you are not mine
and we have not exchanged
nor the taste of our lips
nor the shivering of our skin
not even the blink of an eye
my dreams of holding you at night
are forbidden
and to play with such raw imaginary purity
is an ugly disfigurement of reality
i am not yours,
all disappointment,
pain and doubt included,
packaged in a ball of light
and the definition of human confusion.
You have not chosen me
I owe you no explanation
I should not have to struggle
I should not beg for confirmation
because we are not one.
why is it so?