Fuckboy, I Don't Blame You

Fuckboy, I don’t blame you;

Everywhere I click someone is calling you out,

naming, or shaming you,

Saying you want to claim them without letting them claim you,

And when you’re caught fucking around you say some bitch

trying to frame you instead of owning up to it,

But really it’s more subtle than that,

Symptoms of a social degenerative disease that feeds on hurting one and other.

The follicles of your stubbly approach are deeply rooted in fear,

Lightly abrasive as each hair trembles when you start to feel,

Reminding you to indulge in that itch to shave off, sabotage growth, save the only face you can’t really show off.

After a moment of truly being bare, you become barely there, unable to bear the weight of your own emotional strands,

You’re so scared!

Fuckboy, I don’t blame you,

But

Everyone you dick around isn’t trying to drain you, lease out your brain or train you,

To lead a blind eye to their leeching lies like the one that hurt you,

The one you couldn’t shake off, but had to burn off,

With a stick that you now carry as a torch of your own,

Ready to sear, steer away any pulse that threatens to sync with yours again,

But reckon not to use that light and look at your own reflection,

Fangs you’ve grown still crave love to feed a warped bloodlust for all that is

A fulfilled life we all deserve, but now you too are causing hurt,

Latching onto the epidermis, but whispering to the epicenter of my soul

And you know you’ve got me.

Though your inconsistencies shatter the image of a past self you mirror,

Revealing no more than a mirage in a dry spell,

Little white hourglass sand lies of omission that

Don’t uphold,

But all of the good times still make me feel otherwise.

And fuckboy, I still don’t blame you;

Every game you play I play just to entertain you,

I make the choice to refrain and sustain you,

The fly I place on the wall of our lives has too many eyes for you to possibly blind,

And smells that my blood is never enough for the blood money you bet on this blood sport mentality,

That you’ve got to play to keep your heart beating.

But I do not fear looking into my own mind’s eye;

I see my own insecurity uncharacteristically rooted in this present state of ambiguity,

And I try to accept you as you are,

Not as you were,

Not as I’d like you to be.