To you, dear you,
I can't see past my rage.
I saw you, I knew you, I loved you.
Every flaw I took in stride, took it as a part
of the whole of your incredible being.
You knew. You knew how I loved you.
I hung on to your every word,
I smiled at your eyes.
How useful it was
for you to have me at your disposal,
your human diary, a figment of your imagination.
A conversation with yourself.
A malicious game, far from the search
for authenticity which you claimed as your quest.
You want authentic, here I am.
Not enough of a chase is it?
And you say you are real.
Is my face not perfect enough
for your scrutinizing eyes?
Does my body not fling itself
willingly enough at your gaze?
To you, dear you,
*******.