Everything you ever did wrong
you wanted to fix with me,
your tweaked rerun.
The casting was all wrong.
A bean sprouted from disappointed dreams,
I went off script, losing
the pink swirls, the tea parties,
and the porcelain dolls.
Your prototype miscarried
into gothic horror,
tarot card spreads and spirits
calling from the darkness.
My wings didn't sprout.
The tiara never fit.
My shields failed.
Layers of masks;
the paint is peeling.
Alterations and cuts,
the skin doesn't fit.
I struggle to breathe; to cut;
I'm corseted into the wrong role,
robed as an ill favored caricature.
I'm shedding your skin
into something reptilian and sleek.
Dropping the masks,
I still won't wear pink
I loved a Botticelli artist,
Medici nosed and sewer deep.
You took him.
Cutting cheekbones
your heavy arsenal.
Victory was inevitable.
Scalps lined your shelves
from Joe Punk
to Evil Personified.
Friendship is war.
We were dolls to be broken
and dropped.
Stand on the pile,
your battle plans to self esteem.
I judged your profile,
forgetting Lord Byron was a bastard.
You were a garret in Paris,
a moth in the darkness.
I brought my black bag,
brimming with legs and breasts.
I couldn't cure you.
The infection was too ingrained.
Your pretty words
turned my head 360.
Your hook was barbed.
I swallowed.
The fight was pitiful.
You cut the line,
leaving me numb,
among the splatter,
my faith torn,
my feet shredded,
your cock broken.
Your cigarette blown words
lodge firmly in my back.
Losing a toe or three
keeps me swaying on the beam.
My fluted mouth stiffens.
I drop more than my shirt
in the parading maze of dazed revelers
sweating in the Carnival swelter.
Twinned but not;
best friend for never.
Dissected from skin to bone.
The stripes on my pants are all wrong.
The paper mache grizzly,
the Army green ginger,
neither fits.
Your German blonde elevates you
to the balcony scene.
Keeping my mask carefully blank,
I fall into beta position.
In the garbage piled streets,
no one wants to vomit alone.
You muzzled me,
taking the key away.
I waited for my carrot.
Sticks followed stones.
They poked me.
They jeered
but I believed.
If I was just good
for long enough.
I stayed mute;
my hands empty,
eyes ahead.
I pretended not to see
candy falling into the hands
of the rebels, the misfits,
and the artists.
I applied for your approval,
selected my Waldo moment.
I stayed the course you set.
My rat for your cheese.
My obedience in triplicate.
You stamped me;
rewards delayed.
I misunderstood
what I was playing for.
The rule book is faulty.
Only the dead reap the prize.
My nemesis gyrates to her own spiteful tune,
placing the soundtrack on replay.
The film runs on endless reels.
She pops my joy balloon,
my present to myself.
She wakes me, sweating,
to a distorted future crone,
eating fast food ketchup for sustenance.
Our reality extends to large vistas
of past pain and future brimstone.
She dances to my pain,
relighting like a phoenix
what cannot be erased.
I need treatment.
Bring on your electrodes.
Incise into my skull.
Let the flagellation cease.
Pierce my demon heart
and grant me amnesiac peace.
You were older, stronger, meaner,
powered up, and ready.
I spawned into existence,
stealing love,
taking undivided attention
from your player status.
Your hate one uped
exponentially;
battle ready.
An apple from a narcissist tree,
seeking power like addicts
chase the dragon.
The game was a mismatch.
Your griefer evolution
spiraled up,
level by level.
Leaving me to fall,
hitbox draining,
condition loss,
without a hope of starting over,
my status stalled,
Character in permadeath.
