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You don't look the same
after I stopped cauterizing the facade  
which peeled away
with every act of attrition
exposing every caveat
you tried to warn me about.

Now you're bile-slicked and bent
languorously limp,
serpentine without the grip
pooling in regret
to the tune of the parrotted philosophy
you used to make yourself bigger than me
but how could you be?

You only ever existed inside of me.
I want to make the version of me
which exists only in your mind a relic.
I can barely see her,
she’s so small,
but her insignificance still haunts me.

I try to drown her
through pain, excess, and sterile pleasure
but her sycophantic cries still resonate  
stifling me with the futility
of what it is to wish
that you saw anything in me
aside from derision.
It scratched the itch
but I wanted to bleed out through
a kaleidoscope of trenchant lust
trapped in chains forged
in the erosion of anticipation.

I soaked up the sycophancy
blinking past you
looking at the shape of the clouds
the lights which trailed across the room;
numb to everything
but the saccharine sting
implanted by superficial servility.

You never saw the pedestal you put me on
as the precipice you’d descend to the gutter from
but that was your downfall,
not mine.
It's just another day,
but what if it wasn’t?
What if our hypothetical half-lives
crawled from the empty parallels,
would they be one more thing to wish away?
Time isn’t linear,
It binds, stagnates, restricts, and corrodes,
the past entwines with the present;
teasing futures better left undreamt.
So, I hold onto you
as the rest of the world slips and fades
transfixed by the reflection in your eyes
as history shatters behind them.

My reality has become the taste of the adrenalised adoration
poured by my own hand as I hold you.
I found you reading between the lines of my own rapture
then we were left to make sense of the impulses
always so ubiquitous with pain.

We found synergy  in contempt,
I wanted the masses to see
but they’d never understand our parade of incomprehensible pretence and apprehension
or the way we paint universes
and only allow the other to step inside.

They’d never understand
how paths threatened to cross
teasing collision,
but we always chose abstraction,
the catharsis in subjugation
where each bruise is a tale of fantasy.
Obedience never leaves room for question.
Even in your absence I never found resent,
just an eagerness which swelled beneath my ribs
as though I’d found the key to the lock on the iron cage
which constricted me.

I write poetry for only flames to see
misanthropic prose which paints you a deity
on a pedestal above the flames
but still, I’m too afraid
to show how the last strings of my sanity are arranged.
This is kinda what my soul looks like
I want Icarus to envy me
as I blister under a new fire
away from servile adoration
on my knees before a deity.
Strike the match
bring inconsolable lust in from the cold
instead of finding poetry in ****
and using your own affinity to keep yourself warm.
I wanted to tell you something today,
but I don’t know who you are.
Maybe I left you in the past.
Maybe you’re someone I’m yet to meet,
or maybe our realities will never collide.
What if I should have met you
on the many nights where I stayed inside
listening to old records
and the only thing which resonated was static?
unedited, just kinda came out, quite happy with it though!
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