Tattoos and dyed hair.
They collect dust in your dreams.
Popularity plays a duet with loneliness.
Isolation surfs on sighs and smiles.
You pull out the car breaks of your bitterness.
There’s always one more wire that you missed.
Your castles fold into a cardboard box then it all collapses.
Popularity is an antique that’s broken.
You no longer want it fixed.
Where is the syringe of cringe when you need it?
Why do you not want attention anymore?
So now you know why your younger
self doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore.
Goodbye.