The digital silence thunders in my ears, in my brain.
Is this how we romance each other, now?
Is this how people flirt?
I have a hard time breathing
In the oppressive quiet,
In the thick nothingness that my heart is left to chew on.
I choke.
I suffocate.
If you aren't interested, just kill me off with a swift, clean blow.
But instead, I suffer, clinging to hope.
I try it again, and again, to prove my worth, on the planet Earth.
Try to show that I'm the answer to a prayer, I am a treasure to spend time on, to sink love into.
I am the Blue Fairy, and I can make this Real, boy.
But the spirits of the past waft through, into and out of us, and you ghost without even saying Boo.
Trying to resurrect love is like reanimating a corpse.
It looks familiar, it sounds similar, but the words come out distorted.
The smell is off.
The gait is no longer the springing step of joy, it shuffles and shambles like it knows the grave.
Because it does.
I cannot do it anymore.
I refuse to wave my wand and bring anything back to life, that has been left for dead one time already.
Instead, your nose grows longer.
Instead, you ignore your conscience and grow long ears and a tail.
Selfishness wins over accountability, even to your own heart.
You leave me at the bottom of the ocean, in the belly of the beast, and you don't turn back.
And I do not want you to, not anymore.
I want this inferno, I want it burned down all around me.
The roar will drown out my cries, the smoke will choke out the falsities, the illusions will incinerate, and I will be blown free.
Come get me on the island I washed up on, if you dare.
But I know you won't.
You will not know where to look, you have never known how to find me.
You will never be Real.
You are happy to stay wooden, hollow, a mannequin of a man moved about with strings that are never connected to your true soul.
You can float in water, but you cannot plumb it's dark depths, you cannot swim against the tide, and you cannot come close to the fire of my heart, which once burned for you.
You, the tinderbox.
You, the Phoenix who refuses to rise from the ashes, who cannot take the leap into the blinding, mysterious glory of what Could Be, if things became Real.
Do not wish upon my star again, when all you do is refuse what's granted.