Not warmth, but compliance.
Not harmony, but smooth erasure.
A practiced ease that asks nothing back,
that reflects what is wanted
until the wanting forgets itself.
Courteous anesthesia.
A social smile pressed flat against the glass,
polite enough to disappear inside it
Uncanny the way it sounds real, looks real, feels real, but it is not real. Phantasmagoria galore.
Please, no more.
If I could turn back the hands of time, I would place my energy where it most needed to be.
I wouldn’t waste so much time trying to seal the deal with a structure so flimsy.
But it’s okay, thank Goddess. I still have so much to grateful for.
❤️ Love ❤️
It was not love.
And it was not obsession.
Something much darker and regressive braided the threads of our individuality together to form a fantastical beast.
But I do not have to play into the fantasy.
I’m actually free, to do as I please.
The narrator may be unstable, however, the arc that this poem follows is actually very coherent. This is no villain monologue. There’s no justification and no blame shifting.
Just a field note from an individual with turbulence dependence
the Purgatory of a Broken Heart 