Feb 2021
To the boy who doesn’t know,
Friendship is never the best way to start, you have so much more to lose
But to know your losing anyway, now does that make the difference?
If we didn’t play a charade of ‘let’s always remain friends’ would you know that you’re going to lose anyway?
To the boy who doesn’t know,
If rationality didn’t fit me better, I would squeeze my way into a size too small, dress of seduction. Paint myself of a naïve affair with attraction and walk with stilettos of confidence. I would stumble my way into your life like a drunk woman on her night out; clumsy but purposeful, take the shot glass of control out of your hands and feel the bittersweet warmth of it travelling through my body.
If understanding didn’t look better, I would tell you to get your **** together. To stop hoarding broken pieces and underserved trophies. To dust your shelves and empty your cupboards of outdated excuses. For it is better to sit in an empty room, with only the acoustic echo of floorboards, than to hear the howling phantoms of cluttered troubles.
If empathy didn’t sound better, I would let my tongue amplify the sinister words of my mind. I would hang my impulsive comments from my mouth like a child’s artwork on a mother’s fridge; too messy and ambiguous to frame but too proud to box away. I would whisper benevolent words of what could have been but firmly articulate the words of what has become.
But Instead, I am a guisard who wears a broken smile held by puppet strings. The puppeteer, with tired arms, and wistful dialogue lamenting of days when the puppet stood by and for itself. For when understanding, empathy and rationality weren’t so heavy, and it wasn’t so difficult to be your friend.
Friendship is never the best way to start, you have so much more to lose
But to know your losing anyway, now does that make the difference?
If we didn’t play a charade of ‘let’s always remain friends’ would you know that you’re going to lose anyway?
To the boy who doesn’t know,
If rationality didn’t fit me better, I would squeeze my way into a size too small, dress of seduction. Paint myself of a naïve affair with attraction and walk with stilettos of confidence. I would stumble my way into your life like a drunk woman on her night out; clumsy but purposeful, take the shot glass of control out of your hands and feel the bittersweet warmth of it travelling through my body.
If understanding didn’t look better, I would tell you to get your **** together. To stop hoarding broken pieces and underserved trophies. To dust your shelves and empty your cupboards of outdated excuses. For it is better to sit in an empty room, with only the acoustic echo of floorboards, than to hear the howling phantoms of cluttered troubles.
If empathy didn’t sound better, I would let my tongue amplify the sinister words of my mind. I would hang my impulsive comments from my mouth like a child’s artwork on a mother’s fridge; too messy and ambiguous to frame but too proud to box away. I would whisper benevolent words of what could have been but firmly articulate the words of what has become.
But Instead, I am a guisard who wears a broken smile held by puppet strings. The puppeteer, with tired arms, and wistful dialogue lamenting of days when the puppet stood by and for itself. For when understanding, empathy and rationality weren’t so heavy, and it wasn’t so difficult to be your friend.
