Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.

you liked to think we pushed through the bad.

"I feel bad about my deeper, underlying reasons for judging people with children. I judge them as a defense mechanism, because I am sad about my motivations for not having kids. I am self-centered and dysmorphic with low self-esteem."
‒ Melissa Broder


The boy had a dream,
though ambitious, he never made plans.
The girl wanted a holiday,
but she chose to stay to make amends.

The boy loved ice cream,
little pyramids of joyful fixation.
The girl had a habit to weigh,
but she never noticed her emaciation.

The girl struggled with esteem,
cautious with food, she'd rather abstain.
The boy watched her go astray,
but he couldn't bear to see her in pain.

The girl forced herself a regime,
controlled by a nauseating cycle of malnutrition.
The boy knew that she would soon fall prey,
but he understood that it was her form of desperation.

The boy wanted to mend the hole in the seam,
not knowing how to sew, he worked on the stitches first.
The girl was too busy stuck on thoughts from yesterday,
but she recognised that those thoughts were too perverse.

The boy wanted to shake her and scream,
asking her to let go of the shame and live.
The girl had her defense mechanism on full display,
but she paused her rumination in search for reprieve.

The girl has a dream,
an impulsive urge to flee.
The boy says, run away,
run away with me.

The girl chooses the extreme,
the leap of faith, and to stop the self-blame.
The boy waits at the doorway,
but she never came.


The girl waits at the train station,
waiting for him to arrive.
The boy was nowhere to be seen,
but he was really late – it’s half-past five.

The girl sat there, composed and patient,
while she constructed all possible reasons for the delay.
The boy sometimes behaved like he was thirteen,
but he could be stuck in a jam on the highway.

The boy deserved a chance for explanation,
knowing him as someone neither irresponsible nor forgetful.
The girl shrugged it off with her daily dose of caffeine,
but she quietly felt a little disheartened, a little fretful.

The girl stops all inner narration,
simply enjoying her peace within the bustling atmosphere.
The boy, for once, planned the escapade with such adrenaline,
but he still isn’t here.

The girl doesn’t want to succumb him to damnation,
letting her optimism slowly revive.
The boy is just anxious or lost, or somewhere in-between,
but the wait was worth it as she watched him arrive.


The feeling of flipping the poker chip,
revealing it to land on the same side twice.
That feeling of self-induced guilt trip,
knowing it would have been much different with a dice.

The feeling of taking the gamble,
to bet on a different side each time.
The feeling of trying so hard not to fumble,
that thought of it itself was so sublime

The feeling of taking a chance,
not knowing the melee effect.
The feeling of being stuck in trance,
losing all ability to retrospect.

The feeling of raising the stakes,
a painstaking attempt to brace and bit.
The feeling of doing whatever it takes,
but nothing could ever make up for it.


The choice to ruminate.
The choice to take that bait.
The choice to self-inflict.
The choice to contradict.

The worn-out brain.
The addiction to pain.
The irremovable stain.
The willpower on the wane.


Pulling up on the driveway.
Probably wearing grey.
Perhaps it was time to play.
Perhaps it was time to pray.


The grandeur performance where idealistic nobility is negligible is the true form of actualisation; 
A state of the art display of aphorism perceptible within the frivolously triumphant semblance.



ignoring the problems just to hold what we had.
don't take this the wrong way.
don't take this the wrong way.


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