#poetrycycle
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF™: “Safety in Numbers (Curated)” (Part III)
(Another layer of the curated self – the version designed to be seen, not known.)
“Thanks for coming –
how’s your evening so far?”
It always starts like this.
A softness rehearsed
until it feels spontaneous.
A small, human sentence
placed like a welcome mat
outside a door
that never fully opens.
Welcome.
Here, the lighting is intentional.
Warm enough to flatter,
dim enough to conceal.
Every angle pre‑approved.
Every silence moderated.
I arrive already arranged:
hair undone in the way
that suggests effortlessness,
fingers on the keys
as if music simply happens to me
and isn’t practiced
like a survival skill.
Or the violin –
tilted into that posture
that reads as devotion
but never risk.
I call her me.
She calls me content.
She never asks
why they’re watching.
She knows the contract:
I provide the outline,
they fill it with longing.
Safety in numbers –
though numbers now have names,
icons,
tiny faces offering
soft approval shaped like a heart.
They gather.
Not too close –
never that –
but close enough
to simulate intimacy.
And simulation is important.
Simulation feels safe.
Simulation performs truth
without the inconvenience of it.
Honestly, I wish
I could be like other people –
careless, unlit,
unarranged.
But that would be…
off‑brand.
So I offer fragments:
a phrase at the piano
that sounds like confession,
a bow drawn slowly
as if revealing something
I never intend to reveal.
Not too much.
Never too much.
Just enough
to imply depth
without the burden of it.
“Come closer,” I write
without writing it.
“Stay a while.”
But not long enough
to ask anything real.
I can give you something –
tonight,
tomorrow,
whenever the algorithm
permits my existence.
It’s easier this way.
With one person
there are questions.
With many
there is only response.
A chorus of small affirmations
that never quite touch me,
but orbit,
obediently,
like well‑trained birds.
Do you see?
I am alone,
but at scale.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 10:47 AM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF™ (Part I)
(Because even authenticity needs a little editing.)
Every morning,
The Polished Self™
wakes before I do.
It stretches,
straightens its metaphorical collar,
and asks me
if I’m ready to be seen.
I tell it
I haven’t had coffee yet.
It tells me
visibility waits for no one.
Together we review
the daily rituals:
curate,
crop,
soften the shadows,
brighten the eyes,
remove the parts
that don’t photograph well –
which is to say,
most of me.
The Polished Self
is patient,
in the way a mirror is patient:
it reflects
without forgiving.
It reminds me
that authenticity
is a performance too,
just with better lighting.
Sometimes I ask
if we could take a day off –
be unpresentable,
unoptimized,
unseen.
It smiles
with the kind of pity
reserved for amateurs.
“People don’t want the truth,”
it says.
“They want the version of you
that looks like the truth
but doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”
And I nod,
because I’ve learned
that arguing with a reflection
only makes the glass smudge.
Still,
there are evenings
when I catch myself
in a window
after dark –
unfiltered,
unarranged,
unpolished –
and I think:
this person,
this quiet, unlit version,
might be worth showing too.
But morning comes,
and The Polished Self™
is already awake,
already shining,
already asking:
“Are you ready
to be believed today?”
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 8:46 AM UTC
(A poem about love that no longer asks – only remains.)
I don’t expect your love.
Expectation is a door
I’ve stopped checking.
But what I feel
remains available,
not as a plea,
but as a place –
a room I no longer wait in,
yet still keep warm.
There was a time
when affection meant
leaning forward,
hoping for symmetry.
Now it means
standing upright,
letting the world
tilt as it must.
Love, for me,
is no longer a transaction.
No ledger,
no return on investment,
no quiet hunger
for mirrored emotion.
It’s simply presence –
steady,
unforced,
unpolished in the best way.
A resource,
not a request.
If you ever need it,
you’ll find it intact.
But I won’t hold the door,
won’t wait in the hallway,
won’t measure myself
against your absence.
I’ve learned to live
in rooms with windows,
not thresholds.
And still –
the warmth remains.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 5:10 AM UTC
Бета-версия дрочер-принцессы,
Была предсказуемо пресной —
Cтеклянный мозг из пластика,
Но, ты так прекрасна и тесна.
«Так трахаться будем иль трахатся?» —
Cпросил тебя твой мужчина.
«А может быть просто трахатса?» —
Ебучая чертовщина!
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 9:10 PM UTC