I think I’ve been lied to
an eternity of graceful dissimulation
leaky pinky swears
and admiration that now haunts
swindling the breaks in my mental symbiosis
my shooting star wish
trampled with existential vertigo
taking unknown shapes
tormenting me right in my nape
paralyzed by crisis
resistant of digestion
i’ve convinced the paralysis
platformed by my distress
that this turnout is woven in gossip
because none of this makes sense
