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.

Everyone’s only ever in love with the idea of her. They like her performance. She draws in many fleeting fans but not supporters.
With her sight withering and her back stooping, what she has established as her foundational support simply disbands in search of new fun to feast on. In vain she sweated so harshly while dancing for their judgemental eyes that their idea of her melted off of her skin and she was left naked and alone.

But this is not ideal.
I don’t fancy him.
There’s no spark for me.
I admire him. I have love for him. But I don’t fancy him.
I find myself wanting to fancy him.
Due to selfish, superficial, unemotional motivations I give him a try.
He’s in ecstasy. Beyond pleased.
I’m in two minds. I’m kissing him.
But why?
Why am I kissing him?
I don’t fancy him.
This is so ****** up.
I tried mum. Honestly.