I keep on replaying.
Pause. Rewind. Play.
Rewind. Play.
No more time for pause because I want to go back to the time where it didn’t hurt.
Where pretense was for the people I gossiped about.
To put on a brave face and sing Pharrell’s “Happy” like a fucking anthem to get them through the day.
I’m living their reality now, the nightmare I always knew I’ll get up from.
Now pinching myself seems futile, because I’ll just add more liquid to the drink that my eyes pour out,
right down to my nose, a sticky fluid for my mouth to taste.
Questions are just that. No answers in my reality. Making do with what I have, I can’t.
Scratching the surface, burrowing deeper to see if I missed something.
Just like a dog, my salivary glands overwork themselves at the awaited fulfillment.
Awaited fulfillment, never to achieve a sigh of satisfaction.
Hair pulling, can’t you just assuage my curious soul, it’s hard to keep up with the present.
When the past keeps on replaying, on which screen, not so sure.
It’s easy to pretend. Pretend the loss is temporary. That the stab was not a butchering, but a scratch.
Just dots of stains and not a dam of bloody current to power your throne.
The betrayal, I can lie, was just an accident.
To the hospital, a few sessions, and the tailor managed to tie our weathered knot.
We’re back again baby.
Fuck the sweetness, fuck the romance, fuck everything that made it seem all right and perfect.
The remake, the reuse, the recycle. Our connection was past a second-hand quality.
To repair was to punish. Me. To punish my soul.
It’s difficult to pinpoint where it all came crashing, just that the whole year,
and the addition I dare not count, has been bullshit.
Because to try and piece the puzzle together is just torture.
All I know now is the yearn for rejuvenation.
Where a smile is just that, no hidden signs.
Let me live my old reality.
In my case, old is way better than the improved or new.
Fuck the beta, that useless bug filled in-between version.
I’m no longer a demo version for your free pleasure.
Reedah Art 