i've suddenly gotten really good
at hiding how i feel.
so fucking good that some times,
i don't know if what i feel is
even real.
and when music was my only
emotional meal,
the idea, even then,
had broken the whole
cinematic reel.
i'm always one
to be picked,
blown off, played,
like a timeless record
(only for the aesthetic)
is a privilege to my
dishonor.
my eyes grow beady
at the sight of one
singing to my thousands
of melodies.
and again,
when i'm packaged up,
forgotten.
treated like a memory.
as i sit on that same shelf,
forced to watch
other vinyls,
some more colorful than i,
grow attached to the same one,
only to meet my same demise.
my fragile dark surface,
is all but tough.
you knew that,
still didn't give a fuck,
and made it known
i wasn't enough.
