Everyone I’ve talked to about you seem
to know more of my beatings than me.
As if I was as easy to read as a cosmo chic.
I’m on stage six of college delusion and
I understand my own writing no more.
How can everybody read me, but you and I?
I get offended when they dissect my so-called feelings
over a fake fatal operating table
because I do not recognize them.
How can I not recognize them?
Asking you the same would be wasting your time and mine.
Crystal clear requires no further polishing,
but I’m sick of their demolishing affirmations
that have been chasing me my whole life
and forced out of me no other answer than
NO!
I am JUST what I chose to be and not what you see.
You kill my complexity with colourful tags
when must of my clothes are black.
NO, I DO NOT LOVE HIM!
Because I should be able to peel off my skin
to the verge of vivid exposure when he fucks me.
But no. That doesn’t happen.
And I shy away and
I’m left trapped into a corner
where instead of two naked souls
I face the
rattling
judging
mirror.
Nebula Bruises 