Shortcomings

Through thick and thin, and all your sins and all the skin, from your navel to your chin, that you show me, go below for me, say it isn’t so, you see? Don’t look so hurt, when you act so curt, that I flirt and flirt with all the dirt before I’d even look at you, with the fist that I shook at you when you lied, denied, derived and contrived your feelings and your dealings with the sunrise, while you look at me with your doe-brown eyes that lie and belie all the hearts you could have broken as a token of your affections, like all the afflictions you made into fiction for the attentions you’d get at the mention that you could fret over nothing more than the perfection of what you perceived as my direction, dejection, the collection of what you promised me, saying that you missed me so, with your please-don’t-go’s and it-shouldn’t-be-so’s as you threw away what you could have led astray on your own anyway. And you still come over every other day to try and keep me at bay, while you pray for me stay, another day, another day.

Now, now, baby girl. Don’t turn around, with your baby pearls, while I take you down with twilight twirls and auburn curls. Look the other way, while you dare not ask me to stay and fix the fray of all your woven seams and broken dreams, at the corner of 1st and 3rd, you, the little bird, who flies only when someone opens the cage door, to the stage floor. That’s how it shouldn’t be, but that’s all you want to see, with your soft smiles that reach for miles to people who shouldn’t have seen you at all. But they all call, and fall and brawl over nothing more than the illusion of confusion that you so easily make, like all your mistakes that I see you fake, behind the fountain, over the mountain. You twist and fist your fingers as they linger over the things you’ve done that wouldn’t come undone, because you’d rather shun than be shunned, stunned by the gun you always put to your head, like I could take it in your stead, before I’d come to your bed, so misled, so misled.

I’m sick of you. I’m sick of your tricks and the sticks you throw and the words you blow into my face, like I’m a disgrace, a distaste in your chaste little world of good girls and perfect whirls. I’m not going to bow down and drown into the crown of your glory, while you tell stories to all your friends, who would rather bend and rend than mend anything of yours, behind closed doors. So I know that the elaboration of your frustration will not hide the obfuscation of your lacerations on your flawed, slack-jawed slate of red, where you bled all of your dreams for me to scream and scheme back into reality, right now, you see. I’m not one to take lightly, I’m not one to break nightly. You don’t know it yet, but I’m set to get away from you. So don’t hold me back, while you get off track and give me the slack for all the things that have gone black, for the lack of your attention span, where you ran and ran before you could even breathe the words “good bye”, because we were all just a lie, just a lie.

~Noct…………………