Pictures

I get it, one or two pictures just to remember this moment. I'm not gonna look perfect, and you aren't either. It's just a documentation that this happened and we had fun. 



But 30 minutes later we're still taking pictures trying to keep my eyes open, sucking in my stomach, keeping my hair out of my face, pouting my lips, raising my brows. The moment is now supplementary. It will never be relevant in my brain. But hey, at least we got your picture. And maybe one day we could look back on it and I could remember the tears you induced. How you left me bled dry. You wanted me this way, but now that you have it you want it gone. I've always been looking at this family in third person. You removed me from the warmth, and now I'm just stuck in a sort of belonging purgatory, only getting roped back in for pictures. You always liked perfect, presentable things. And that is one thing we will never agree on. Your perfection should feel satisfying, but it truly makes me feel artificial. Sucked dry. I need something flawed. I need something messy. I need something intimate. Something real. But all you've given me is $10 and a damn title. So I hope you're happy. I hope that your ignorance stays until it doesn't. I hope your blissful spell rubs off and you finally wake up. All I can do is hope. Hope that one day you'd notice how meaningless and manufactured you make everything feel. And even the little g agrees. Somehow, strangely enough, my enemy's enemy is still my enemy. Applying to you then myself, reflecting on you. I am stuck in this phialiform world. and sometimes the isolation is almost bearable when I look at your face. One day, You'll be out of my pictures.