I’m afraid of being alone, always have been. Often being too desperate in need of someone, I choose wrong ones and they scoot away. I then yeet my true self off a cliff and put on the cloak of narcissism. And I hit the road to hoax, ‘to hoax the world’ I make-believed myself, but nah-ah, people aren’t as dumb as they pretend to be, they catch me in the act, they know I actually hoax myself.
They question me, “What would it take for you to truly love yourself?”
Then there’s my tranquil reply, “It would take a whole nexus event, nothing less could work. Then one thing must lead to another so as to confront a variant of myself. But then again, there’s once in a blue moon chance that I would fall for her under a starry, astral sky that too amidst the chaos.
“Let us surmise, all this comes true, even if for a heart-beat, what do you think it will end in? I’m pretty sure it will end in betrayal. Doesn’t matter which one of my versions does it, after all it is me, always been me. I’ll never be capable to love myself.”
Must I dwell on pretentious love while I linger on?
Love, certainly, is a dagger; a double edged at that one, isn’t it?
Rogue Poet 