You are not pretty. In a moment of weakness, when the masks
come off, get a glimpse of your soul. Your very own selfish, ugly soul baring
its teeth, threatening to take you down with it.
But that is the truth. You are ugly. You want to be loved.
You want to be wanted. Your cry hoarse about rainbows and unicorns and burnt-orange
sunsets. And then you turn away and start building those infamous walls around
yourself. One brick a day.
Your pillow, damp with sweat and tears, stands testimony to
how much cowardice you have dedicated your life to. All the times that might
have been. All that intimacy, you would gladly trade for a lollipop. And all
those dreams, rising up above you; finding better places to be realized.
Are you really that delusional? The invisible bear on your
back has put on weight. Coiling under a blanket does not help anymore. Stop
being such a mucking foron. And hope again for that whiff of passion. That dark
lining on the silver sky. Those fruity kisses. The slow waltzes. And once
again, those saccharine sweet summers.
