They say to make a friend out of your enemies,
a phrase I never cared for,
until you entered my life,
sauntering in with a cheshire lilt,
prodding my hand to make a muse out of you.
It’s a waste of time,
a voluntary sacrifice of ego and soul
to stoke the flames beneath feet that walked all over me
and expected gratitude in return.
Sometimes it’s as if you’re still waiting—
in passing when your tepid gaze glosses over me,
and pins needles in my back the moment I turn away.
(I returned your gift with a smile once.)
I was blinded by the subtleties
between admiration and comparison,
fruition and competition,
barely able to keep up with myself amidst it all.
In the castaway of my sinking ship,
you saw a flurry of white the shape of a flag,
and beckoned to the horizon,
while I welcomed the sea.
You tended to only see what you wanted to,
presented in the way you liked to see them—
refined, polished, adept.
Idiosyncrasies strung on the wrong chord
were chided with a sepia-rimmed simper.
I, a marionette in your world-class act,
saw through you an act too late.
Yet you, assiduous as ever,
continued to entice and bewitch,
performing for contenders and for prey,
for whoever will stay and watch.
After all,
what’s a class act without an audience?
Dec 4, 2025
Dec 4, 2025 at 11:25 PM UTC
They say to make a friend out of your enemies,
a phrase I never cared for,
until you entered my life,
sauntering in with a cheshire lilt,
prodding my hand to make a muse out of you.
It’s a waste of time,
a voluntary sacrifice of ego and soul
to stoke the flames beneath feet that walked all over me
and expected gratitude in return.
Sometimes it’s as if you’re still waiting—
in passing when your tepid gaze glosses over me,
and pins needles in my back the moment I turn away.
(I returned your gift with a smile once.)
I was blinded by the subtleties
between admiration and comparison,
fruition and competition,
barely able to keep up with myself amidst it all.
In the castaway of my sinking ship,
you saw a flurry of white the shape of a flag,
and beckoned to the horizon,
while I welcomed the sea.
You tended to only see what you wanted to,
presented in the way you liked to see them—
refined, polished, adept.
Idiosyncrasies strung on the wrong chord
were chided with a sepia-rimmed simper.
I, a marionette in your world-class act,
saw through you an act too late.
Yet you, assiduous as ever,
continued to entice and bewitch,
performing for contenders and for prey,
for whoever will stay and watch.
After all,
what’s a class act without an audience?
