Whenever I fall in love, I lock myself up in a cage of stolen glares and for the key I do not give a care. But I'm not in love now, and still, the prison surrounds me and our blood is all over this gown. The rope, the hope, the trope. Oh... curse me, curse him. I won't leave, I'm too selfish to wheep. I won't find a better love, I don't deserve the trophies above, just let this sentence sink in on both of us, with sweet ink as a plus. Who cares where the daggers touch? If it's hearts, your back or lungs? My denials are in a thousand rhymes, a hundred more seems just right.
Poets are pretenders. They pretend all so real, that they pretend it's love, the love they truly feel*. So let me pretend that for him I fell, while I burn cathedrals down to hell. The fear is greater than movie cliches, that's why I'll direct this play to never be the one tossed away in an enormous love decay that'll let me in an eternal gray if they get tired of me someday. I'll picture him with another face, until my evil eyes ache. My poor boy is just a toy, but this I won't destroy, even if I don't enjoy, 'cause this neediness is a pretty lie to lead us. Just another emotion to fake, just another fool in Alligator's Tears Lake. I bought angels to feed my pity and poetry to win committees for when he writes his own ditty calling me a bitch of the highest bid.
Fuck, my poker cards are stained... I need a metaphor for self-induced pain...
So please give me it all, I'm sure I can buy honesty at the mall. Change is so overrated, and after this prose, how can I be hated? Take a look at the rotten, boiled, needed heart: it wants a piece of art from a fairytale in which it can't take part, so it'll pull your tail when I'm the one to fail. If you want the truth this is my insecure perversion in the most realistic version; take it or leave this conversation and greet the stupid piece of meat that I pretend to be just to see you with me in this wicked fleeing sea.
And how hated can I be?
...
When I finally run away because someone made my heart race, that someone will do to me the same I did to my former prisoner's embrace. And I'll deserve all the rage.
And I'll cry.
And I'll scream.
And I'll pledge.
And I'll laugh.
Because my fallen life is the only joke I'll ever have.
—
* Intertextuality with the poem "O Poeta É Um Fingidor" by Fernando Pessoa, Portuguese poet.
