Across the table of a coffee house,
She tells me she is a daughter of the stars.
A cosmic being ahead of her time.
I let the darkness seep in as she claims they are not who they say her to be.
Doused in MAC,
gazing with red eyes,
she tells me who she is not: lost,
Vulnerable,
Disturbed.
A danger to herself,
Maybe.
Misunderstood, ahead of her time:
Probably.
But she is no more lost than the woman on the subway
in Chanel who is just as empty inside.
The Chanel girl just hides it.
The other doesn't care at all.
I take mental notes of her speech,
Watching emotional reactions.
Where she's broken,
Been battered.
I am just another who doesn't believe
That she is a daughter of the Stars.
She lets me get to third base,
Her lips love a mile a minute without any prompting.
Plumato lips could go on for hours
As she gets approval from the enlightened.
Narcissistic,
Maybe.
Delusional,
Possibly.
But no more so than the starlet who sells sex to maintain stardom.
The starlet is socially acceptable.
Plumato lips are not.
She ends the night in a toilet,
Bending over and puking by my side.
My coffee house date
Knew my intentions
As I trailed her body with bloodshot eyes. She took the train home.
I was off guard.
A daughter of the stars,
as I held her head
In my grasp.
I didn't believe or hear her words,
pleads,
In the back of my car.
The sensation of betrayal, of hatred, of lust,
Only heightened my senses.
Careless.
Objective.
Empty.
My white walls echo mind mind as the cell echoes back at me.
Daunting.
I am weak,
Delusional, lost...
I am
A dying star in her solar system.
She was a daughter of the stars.
She will rebuild,
Blessed by the gods
With immortality and resilience.
Unaffected, she will leave me
Turning into myself
Asking why.
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