Your love is like an understudy.
A back up of all her theatrical headaches,
you were there wishing, wanting her to break a leg,
so that you can steal the spotlight, the fame, and my heart.
But darling I see your confession as nothing more than the words on my script;
a string of letters that can only hope would please it's audience.
However, I am not pleased.
I loathe your plebeian personality,
and how you broke so easily after a kiss I stole in red.
You either make it or break it on the stage,
but you were already broken after yearning for so long.
You say that you wouldn't mind being casted as Insipid Character #3,
as long as I sneak off with you during rehearsal.
Instead of charmed, I find myself irritated.
In my hands you are a peach, I could bruise you so easily - you make me want to hurl.
You are a star in your own ghost stage and paper audience,
so why not bask in the harsh lights set on you,
with colours as uncomplimentary as the both of us together?
I am sorry to say that you don't have to call us, we'll call you.
I tell you this and while you rapidly fire your words that are as grating as a primmadonna's,
I doodle a heart over a name with a black Sharpie,
while planning how to reject the next understudy.
YOU ARE READING
''Oh, if you only knew what we've been up to, I guarantee you'd keep it secret.''