El Dopa.
The dope.
That's not a real cognate.
The white queen, my sweet dihydroxyphenyl lover
It creates happiness and excitement and
Eternal mouthless hells where nor-and-regular-epinephrine torment me deservingly.
I am not happy. I can't even tell what's real.
The trite saying that love is a drug is true to members of my club
Holding meetings where anyone who gets off on adulation and attachment and access and ass and adrenaline and adultery are welcome.
Darling delicious Dopamine.
Somehow I've convinced two dozen men to sleep with me and dozens of women to waste their time on me.
My relationship with them reflects on me worse and on them better.
Often misleading, or irresistibly mysterious,
Mean polarized with nice.
Something about me has an allure.
Not incredibly attractive yet consistently handsome
The intricate push-pull of my vacillating attachments puts screws in people's hearts.
I'm exactly as painful as I sound.
I'm sorry.
I hate myself more than you hate me, though.
You can go away, now, just like everyone else.
Everything is temporary anyway. Leave me alone.
I'm a borderline personality and
I expect you to hate me for it.
But that sounds like it's not my fault--it is.
Everything is.
And isn't.
I can't pin down anything because my awareness changes in the breeze.
I always thought I won relationships because I didn't screw up.
When I disguise my win as a loss because there's so little of me there in the first place
If someone likes me I'm filled in with their bathroom mirror selfie and
I'm a whiteboard for a misguided subconscious desire for perfection
I'm perfect sometimes but I'm often ugly and I hate how badly I need your approval.
I'm broken and even trying to reassemble the mirror gives me glass slivers.
I'm double-business bound:Too good for hell and too bad for heaven
I'm simply who I am.
Just like you.
The dope.
That's not a real cognate.
The white queen, my sweet dihydroxyphenyl lover
It creates happiness and excitement and
Eternal mouthless hells where nor-and-regular-epinephrine torment me deservingly.
I am not happy. I can't even tell what's real.
The trite saying that love is a drug is true to members of my club
Holding meetings where anyone who gets off on adulation and attachment and access and ass and adrenaline and adultery are welcome.
Darling delicious Dopamine.
Somehow I've convinced two dozen men to sleep with me and dozens of women to waste their time on me.
My relationship with them reflects on me worse and on them better.
Often misleading, or irresistibly mysterious,
Mean polarized with nice.
Something about me has an allure.
Not incredibly attractive yet consistently handsome
The intricate push-pull of my vacillating attachments puts screws in people's hearts.
I'm exactly as painful as I sound.
I'm sorry.
I hate myself more than you hate me, though.
You can go away, now, just like everyone else.
Everything is temporary anyway. Leave me alone.
I'm a borderline personality and
I expect you to hate me for it.
But that sounds like it's not my fault--it is.
Everything is.
And isn't.
I can't pin down anything because my awareness changes in the breeze.
I always thought I won relationships because I didn't screw up.
When I disguise my win as a loss because there's so little of me there in the first place
If someone likes me I'm filled in with their bathroom mirror selfie and
I'm a whiteboard for a misguided subconscious desire for perfection
I'm perfect sometimes but I'm often ugly and I hate how badly I need your approval.
I'm broken and even trying to reassemble the mirror gives me glass slivers.
I'm double-business bound:Too good for hell and too bad for heaven
I'm simply who I am.
Just like you.
