Read the palm of my hand,
Analyse the lines and see that it maps a highway with no destination
You became a long highway with high speeds and good music but as the driver, I knew it were to go nowhere
But as the passenger, you anticipated us to go everywhere  

And for that I’m sorry
You became a best friend that I resented
And I became the best friend that you had to learn to resent

Long car talks became our lingo and daily messages was our travel snack that we would crunch like a pass time
But as you found another, our cars collided
Inertia was met by fastening seatbelts and an accident we both denied had occurred  
And it's not that I’m jealous or realised I love you

But I am now met with suburbia,
With corners and cafe small talk,
Stop signs and round a bouts,

And I am to know that I can no longer rely on you like a country road but instead give way to another
I wish all the best for you
I know you once looked at my hands as a destination for yours
And honestly, sometimes I wish it were
But instead, they are creased maps leading to the nowhere for you
And everywhere for someone else

Although, I really hope you enjoyed the trip home

You can get the most expensive perfume,
Encased in an intricate and delicate glass
Spray it on a paper and sell it to customers,
begging for more

But beware, if you spray too much, the smell becomes sickly
It intoxicates the room like phantoms of a past mistake

Oh, how they became my expensive perfume.
Something encased in our surname,
With a beautiful scent yet disturbing overload.

My sister creases her eyebrows with a melodramatic pout and BAM my phone unlocks

My brother, with a satirical smirk gleams at its camera and BAM the same outcome

Within one singular moment, they have access to all my inner secrets and privacy hidden behind the locked screen.

And though it just seems like a software error on apples half, the suspenseful irony is louder than the sound of my phones screen hitting the cold hard and textured pavement.

My reflection, nothing more than the people around me.  

If I were to submit my personality of Turn it in, I fear that it would highlight all the words I have spoken, asking for my references. It would clear me of my ideologies and leave a blank page titled ‘what was original’. Grammarly, would suggest better words and underline my lack of structure. Google docs would warn me that my ‘new draft’ is not yet saved with my improper connections and safari would constantly warn me of possible identity theft.

I’m scared if you get close enough you will find that I am a puzzle made of lost pieces. The completion, a tactile experience of misfits, lifted with bent ends, forced together to create an abstract image of everybody else.

The endless hours spent in confusion, the restless eyes searching for a border, only to find that the picture doesn’t reflect the image on the box.
the image that you expected
The image that you desired.

My mirror, smudged with fingerprints of someone else, angled away from my body only reflecting the people I am ought to become.  

I fear that if a mirror could talk, it would expose me of all that, to which I have stolen.

Most of all, I fear that once you unlock the phone, see the puzzle, gaze into my mirror you would find an idiosyncratic reflection that I do not yet recognise.

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.