alien bitch

you start to wonder why you're always manic-pixied

and realize the grim truth:

you have no substance

they can project whatever they want onto you

nothing more than a blank expanse,

a movie screen

and with barely a thought in your head

conversations are typically

one-sided

you, the patient receiver

them, the main character

you listen well,

with two dark eyes that bore into their soul

when really it's your only way of staying anchored to reality

fighting for your life to play a part

in a game which you're still unsure of the rules

dissociation and distraction

are the angel & devil on your shoulders

each whispering sweet-nothings in your ears

but ripping you in two

yet still,

you somehow manage

to enchant

and your curse is to sprinkle pixie dust

on all those you encounter

while you float in an endless void of

bland confusion

half-thoughts and dead dreams

subsisting on the complex lives of those around you

fore-fed their truths and lies

like an alien creature born with a bottomless stomach

and after all this time

the Weight Of Others

finally starts to accumulate