she wants to pull something out of me
something to play with
to use against me
something good to twist
and turn into something that hurts
me right back
*
she looks at me empty-hearted
her eyes, grey from self-starvation
begging me
to put my soul on a platter
*
she wants me in the same room with her
so that she can bring the roof down upon me
*
her face discomforts me
the absence of good intentions
*
it is unsettling to listen to the fast effortless pace between
her swindling voice
and her pain-inflicting true voice
they almost sound the same
that’s the trick
listen closely
*
she is nourished by your projections on her
the fantasy she performs
the truth you think you buy
and she draws you in and closer
and you gape in admiration
within the images of blind adoration
echoing into the world
and she profits from your praise
and she snaps and entraps you
and as she blossoms wildly
you degenerate
and nobody suspects a thing
because you painted her in the most beautiful tones
and taking it back means nothing
the more you speak to open eyes
and liberate yourself
the more she’ll toy with you
harass you, intimidate you, isolate you,
badmouth you, exploit you,
whilst living off your engrained hymns of idealisation
that seem to grow and become magnified
as you shrink
in your perceived powerlessness
Croque-Melpomene 