I’m a flirt.
Repeated offence.
Due to my own desperate insecurity I flirt with boys I don’t fancy.
I love to be loved.
I love the attention of it.
I need to constantly be told that I’m attractive. I want to be asked out in a flush of embarrassed pride. I need my ego stroked.
I get my necessary daily exercise off of this chase.
I want only the idea of you.
When I inevitably give a confused answer to your emotions either our friendship is already flushed or I’m perched panting on the toilet still.
****, get a plunger I want back what we had before. Oops. Lactic acid flows.
Now washing my hands I don’t know if I consider the flirtees seedlings of feeling.
Do I just want them drooling and gasping for air?
I content myself selfishly assuming they are happy getting to fancy me.
But what about when I throw them into competition with their brother?
Have a won the race?
Is it a straight stairway to heaven?
What then rationalising wannabe Mother Theresa?
Till now I hadn’t quite recorded how each lap brings a tiresome blow to my emotional intelligence.
Obsessed with the thrill of the chase
I put myself in a cat-mouse roller coaster trap that ultimately reflects badly on me and my exhausted lungs.

High. Grossly elevated to the point where only your bursting bunions can be seen by us commoners.
Don’t trouble your head in the clouds, us peasants will fan your warts and peel your pimples. You are so full of pus after all.
We have financed the altar with our pennies in the hope that it will lift us out of your corrupt oppression.
We will at a word carry your weight, thoughts and offspring.
Press down, go on, push hard, harder, bury us all in the dirt as you move up, high, higher. Altitude sickness? Ill. In sickness and in health you head explodes under the buzz of your unhealthy ego. The altar can be a hostile heaven.

Are we grateful for our bubble?
The constant flow of comfort? The solidified love? The cushiony warmth of meaningful kisses? The lack of peril? The apparent feeling?
No. We lust after more agency.
We dart for the furthest ends of the edge. And when we fall off with a weak ‘pop’
We crave out beginnings in that gooey bubble.
Lacking in the nest’s feathers we don’t have the means to craft wings to fly us home.
In an attempt to cry out, lacking in belonging we are too far gone to even find our voice.

She worships you. Your sinful indulgence and all.
She laps up your grey blood
and nourishes her flab on your staleness.
On her weaknesses and confessions you elevate yourself.
Higher.
The altar cracks.
She darts to heel your splinter but her limbs are broken under the collapse.
Upset at her lack of agency and engrossed in prayer she drowns herself in her own tears unknowingly.
In the end your ***** amassed.
An unexpected end to a story of fatherly shepherding.
See not every story has a Noah and his Arc,
most end with the egotistical on the altar, and the saints martyred in the gutter.
Sacrifice is still bloodshed.

Slirrppppp. Don’t slip up. Conform or collide. There’s no bigger disability than difference darling. Take it from that man in the corner. Slurp up the norm or slip into the unhealthy tendencies. It’s Sophie’s chaotic choice. Choose badly ;)

When was the last time I felt an itch?
What should I be thinking about?
I feel blank, dumb, calm?
I wonder if this still counts as feeling?
Is this what they mean when they talk of blissful death?
Soul searching, soul soiled, sailed away.
Bitter taste burns the sides of my tongue.
So I can still taste.
Getting there slowly.

Perched by the sea wreck next to the fallen kite she stills.
Her accomplice applies lipstick to her chapped lips before they both stop screaming.