i read people as easily as you read these words.
except i see inside and out. i doubt you're doing the same.
but sometimes my insecurities get the better of me and i see things that aren't there -
illusions i create for myself.
mysticism and miracles, power without wands or spells.
sighing without realising, wishing days away while preserving seconds
dancing in hooker heels on street corners for money in top hats.
they're sending cards to pay their dues
with thoughts in between the lines of "i'm glad it's not me, but you."
accuse her of being the reason you can't face you own reflection.
convince yourself she's why you shrug your shoulders to shake off your shadow.
we all have secrets. some pass lips -
others are ironic.
let's look at this hypothetically shall we?
if someone told you they were driving themselves crazy, how would you take it?
silence is golden until you force that laugh that makes awkward situations blush in a series of quick-fire excuses.
a rush of, "you know i was only joking, right?"s, cut the tension with a knife.
this is the derailment you imagined. mirages.
the city rushes past insects and make a bigger impact than when it passes us.
blank it out, choke it down, everything ends "happily ever after" now.
