A Collection of Spectacles

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In the year 2020 

I’m trying not to think too much

about missing you,

or whatever,

Instead, I’m sitting at my desk,

Placating myself with the joys modern society

has afforded me,

Aphorisms printed on coffee cups,

Vagueposting at three am.

Algorithmically driven comparative thinking 

has become a new hobby.

I love you more,

obviously,

but at least he reads my fucking messages.

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Really, I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. Gaslit by the moonlight. She may gloat now, but maybe my tear stained face is a premonition. Anyone can seem crazy under the right conditions. I am feeling rage swell up in me again because most romantic partners I’ve had have inflicted emotional damage out of insecurity. I don’t think you grasped what I meant when I called you immature. I meant you didn’t love yourself enough to love me. To realize I know you are flawed and I love even your shortcomings. I don’t deserve to be in a roster with two others.

I can’t do anything but be a terrible romantic, as much as I wage war against romanticism. Thrown under the bus and lied on in order to serve someone else’s well being, but when I complain I’m unreasonable. You ignited within me something I can’t convey and inspired me to do things I will never forget. I truly appreciate how rare that is, enough to take a leap of faith, and it hurts because it seems like you don’t. I can’t patch over how unjust this all is, and I hate pondering ethics.

K has been visiting weekly and really helping me function, to be honest. We have issues but I feel all in all he is sometimes one of the few people I know who takes the time to try and understand me, instead of characterizing me entirely as the extravagant persona I’ve created. He peels back and tries to expose the fruit.

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