Insignificance.
nonsensical.
Enticed by your beauty but frightened by your intellectual prowess (a front, perhaps, but I am not one to judge), I stand back. I watch you, my eyes stalking your movements like a lion would stalk a gazelle, a killer in the midst, his next victim. It is only because I am too afraid to speak the words from my awkward lips with my fumbling tongue that I stand here, lonely amongst this group of people.
You effortlessly glide, gracefulness exuding from the tips of your toes, throughout your entire body, from group to group, person to person, striking up conversation. I cannot help but stare, stare as if I was absorbing all your social skills and gracefulness and utter happiness with your life through my eyes and applying it to myself, letting it glide through my bloodstream as smoothly and effortlessly as you had glided through that room full of people.
People with strange faces, people wearing masks, people with eyes glazed over from the drugs and the boredom. Nothing I could ever say, nothing I could ever do, nothing I could ever even think could be on par with you or what you are or your beauty. You, so far away yet so close, everything about you so dramatic and well thought out and idealistic and I, so normal, the invisibility of awkwardness cloaking me and making me yet another creature in the dark.
And to think, at one point, I knew you so well. I knew you like I knew the back of my hand, the skin covering the bones and muscles, to think I could know your every move and we were mentally attached like twins, like two people separated at birth. To think that I once could be loved by a creature of such magnificence. To think that at one point, I was in love with the way you moved and spoke and the way you created your lies and spun them off as if they were truths, as if they were gospel to a religion that you lead with so many followers. To think that I was once like you.
The thought makes me sick, sick with self-loathing and jealousy.
And I hate your lips and your hands and your hips because at one point in time, they molded to mine and we were one. One being, breathing the same oxygen and thinking similar thoughts. But now we are two, two divided things, floating through the atmosphere, and I mean nothing because you are so much bigger than me. So much more significant. So much more important and I mean nothing. And you have chosen yet another to become one with, but only for how long?
Selfish, I am selfish, selfish and rude to think that you would forever want to stay by my side, and I shake away the vengeful thoughts that plague my sickened brain. For nothing I will ever say will be nearly as important as the pronouns that spew out of your mouth, mid-conversation. No long anecdote about the world and life would be anywhere near important as the knowledge of you being in the same room as I. Because I was once your plaything and now you have disposed of me and I should be very happy that I even ever had anything to do with you at all. You were the unattainable and you become the attainable to me at one point, but now you are once again a beautiful stranger.
A spider, who spins webs of lies and catches many flies in the silky smoothness that are your fabrications.
Regardless of the many lies you tell, I would still kill everyone in this room to get you to acknowledge me. I will carry on meaningless conversations with crowds of people and sully your good name with insulting (slanderous?) remarks, wanting so badly to hate you and wanting even worse to not seem as desperate as I am. However, all I came here for was to have your attention, if only for a second. A quick conversation where I could make up some long story about my life, to enthrall you, to make you jealous and make you wish that my arms were the arms near yours and my hands were the hands digging deep into the back of your jean pockets.
And I watch as yet another fly, she buzzes near you and you catch her with your frog-like tongue, a frog-like tongue dipped deep into the wet crevice that is her throat and I reminisce and recoil. I will never get the chance to get your attention and I will never be the one that you want, not ever again. For the past is the past and this is the present and the future does not hold anything positive about you and I. There is no you and I, there is no us, and I should be grateful that at one point in time, there was.
You lie, you lie, you lie, and I lie in that makeshift bed of sweat and regret that you left me in. The floor is yours to dance upon and I am but an innocent bystander. You are the only person in this world that can make me feel as bad as I do right in this moment without even doing anything directly to me.
But I am but a speck, an insignificant mark on the world, and you are but a vengeful god, and I succumb to your power. I succumb to you, and I am yours, and I will do whatever it is that you believe I should be doing, oh master of puppets. I am but a marionette and I play a tiny role in this puppet show you are putting on, the girl on your hip being center stage for everyone to admire and abhor and interrogate and she'll happily oblige because now she means something to you and I mean nothing.
I watch you from my spot in the back of the room, I watch you gracefully dance out with the horde of your followers in tow and I wish I could be important enough to even walk near you but I cannot. You are a stranger to me and I am a part of the past to you. I have been dismissed. You are no longer in need of my services, my time, my money, my insanity. You do not need me and I should see my way out of the door.
I am unimportance solidified and you are the modern day messiah who does not need people or friends or a lover, you do not need permanence. And all I was looking for was a permanent spot in your life like you had promised. But like the rules of life and social conduct, every promise you had made to me was broken in some way. Just like the trust that we had.
But we, us, you and I... those exist about as much as I do in your world.
You effortlessly glide, gracefulness exuding from the tips of your toes, throughout your entire body, from group to group, person to person, striking up conversation. I cannot help but stare, stare as if I was absorbing all your social skills and gracefulness and utter happiness with your life through my eyes and applying it to myself, letting it glide through my bloodstream as smoothly and effortlessly as you had glided through that room full of people.
People with strange faces, people wearing masks, people with eyes glazed over from the drugs and the boredom. Nothing I could ever say, nothing I could ever do, nothing I could ever even think could be on par with you or what you are or your beauty. You, so far away yet so close, everything about you so dramatic and well thought out and idealistic and I, so normal, the invisibility of awkwardness cloaking me and making me yet another creature in the dark.
And to think, at one point, I knew you so well. I knew you like I knew the back of my hand, the skin covering the bones and muscles, to think I could know your every move and we were mentally attached like twins, like two people separated at birth. To think that I once could be loved by a creature of such magnificence. To think that at one point, I was in love with the way you moved and spoke and the way you created your lies and spun them off as if they were truths, as if they were gospel to a religion that you lead with so many followers. To think that I was once like you.
The thought makes me sick, sick with self-loathing and jealousy.
And I hate your lips and your hands and your hips because at one point in time, they molded to mine and we were one. One being, breathing the same oxygen and thinking similar thoughts. But now we are two, two divided things, floating through the atmosphere, and I mean nothing because you are so much bigger than me. So much more significant. So much more important and I mean nothing. And you have chosen yet another to become one with, but only for how long?
Selfish, I am selfish, selfish and rude to think that you would forever want to stay by my side, and I shake away the vengeful thoughts that plague my sickened brain. For nothing I will ever say will be nearly as important as the pronouns that spew out of your mouth, mid-conversation. No long anecdote about the world and life would be anywhere near important as the knowledge of you being in the same room as I. Because I was once your plaything and now you have disposed of me and I should be very happy that I even ever had anything to do with you at all. You were the unattainable and you become the attainable to me at one point, but now you are once again a beautiful stranger.
A spider, who spins webs of lies and catches many flies in the silky smoothness that are your fabrications.
Regardless of the many lies you tell, I would still kill everyone in this room to get you to acknowledge me. I will carry on meaningless conversations with crowds of people and sully your good name with insulting (slanderous?) remarks, wanting so badly to hate you and wanting even worse to not seem as desperate as I am. However, all I came here for was to have your attention, if only for a second. A quick conversation where I could make up some long story about my life, to enthrall you, to make you jealous and make you wish that my arms were the arms near yours and my hands were the hands digging deep into the back of your jean pockets.
And I watch as yet another fly, she buzzes near you and you catch her with your frog-like tongue, a frog-like tongue dipped deep into the wet crevice that is her throat and I reminisce and recoil. I will never get the chance to get your attention and I will never be the one that you want, not ever again. For the past is the past and this is the present and the future does not hold anything positive about you and I. There is no you and I, there is no us, and I should be grateful that at one point in time, there was.
You lie, you lie, you lie, and I lie in that makeshift bed of sweat and regret that you left me in. The floor is yours to dance upon and I am but an innocent bystander. You are the only person in this world that can make me feel as bad as I do right in this moment without even doing anything directly to me.
But I am but a speck, an insignificant mark on the world, and you are but a vengeful god, and I succumb to your power. I succumb to you, and I am yours, and I will do whatever it is that you believe I should be doing, oh master of puppets. I am but a marionette and I play a tiny role in this puppet show you are putting on, the girl on your hip being center stage for everyone to admire and abhor and interrogate and she'll happily oblige because now she means something to you and I mean nothing.
I watch you from my spot in the back of the room, I watch you gracefully dance out with the horde of your followers in tow and I wish I could be important enough to even walk near you but I cannot. You are a stranger to me and I am a part of the past to you. I have been dismissed. You are no longer in need of my services, my time, my money, my insanity. You do not need me and I should see my way out of the door.
I am unimportance solidified and you are the modern day messiah who does not need people or friends or a lover, you do not need permanence. And all I was looking for was a permanent spot in your life like you had promised. But like the rules of life and social conduct, every promise you had made to me was broken in some way. Just like the trust that we had.
But we, us, you and I... those exist about as much as I do in your world.