I Hate Myself When I’m With You

You came as a faceless entity,
an endlessly recurring eternity.
I sneered and I shrieked,
telling everyone it wasn’t real, that you were a freak.

The moment of truth hit me in minute amounts,
giving me time and false hope, but I’d never surmount.
I think I gave too much away,
and then came the day the rainstorm melted the clay.

I held up my end of the bargain for long enough,
yes, you gave me whatever I wanted, but in the end, it’s all just a laugh.
Perhaps we should part ways,
before this drags too far, losing its beauty, and miring our once-perfect days.

I never doubted your authenticity,
but you never understood how I needed to fake my reality.
Everything is just a game to me,
how I mimicked my (overly) doting parents, in creating the many faces just to be.

I could lie to everyone in the world but you,
don’t you see it, why must you pretend to be such a fool.
We fight and we hate,
but ultimately, I can’t live my life under an unknown fate.

You knew everything about what you wanted,
not giving a thought to what plagues the demented.  
Perhaps love, perhaps fear,
I think I can’t hold onto this for another year.

I write such pretty words of empty nothing;
your head is full of future planning and senseless meaning.
We’re perfection personified together,
because we don’t give a damn to anyone else, not even to each other.          

My friends hated you so,
and I didn’t see the signs till it was red on the blinking console.
But you made me laugh—hell, you almost made me cry,
thank God I didn’t; I’d never be able to forgive you, if you ended up like any small fry.  

The truth is, you work hard for your keep,
and I just look the part for receiving my many pretty tips.
Whatever it may be,
the divide between us is the Milky Way; it’s not you, it’s me.

I can never cross that threshold of starred eternity;
and you’re not willing to traverse the black hole to mend my reality.  
It’s okay, I don’t mind;
I won’t do that for you either, no matter what reasons you find.

I’m a doll, I’m not real—emblazoned across my forehead is the word, “fake”.
You contemplate the incomprehensible; your ignorance indeed takes the cake.  
I’m loud, mean, and dreamless
when I’m with you—the unflattering adjectives are seriously endless.

My mom tells us we’re perfect together;
we’re so in love with our own faces we don’t even realize there’re others.
You bestowed me the muse of superficial beauty,
and still dared to call me a sucker for philosophical realities.

I don’t understand why you always want to follow my every word;
how you make me laugh and roll my eyes when you sputter the absurd.
But you’re the meanest bitch I ever met,
and Sartre said it right when he entwined like with the opposite of kismet.

I choose how I see you, I guess.
You’re the lone chapter in my story without a hundred dotted stars.
I’m rewriting my programme because of your sarcastic wit;
it’s grown on me and I always do as I deem fit.

I never thought I could be so evil,
dripping poison with every spoken word, damaging my anvil.
You live and care for not much else,
I was the girl without a disagreeable bone in her body, and nothing for herself.

When you smile at me, my suspicion heightens,
relaying my hesitancy, proving my unfounded fears a given.
Narcissistic, pretty, and empty-headed,
I never did like the way I turned out with you, the eternal jaded.

See this poem, it’s a perfect example
of what we do have, the prototype of the bastard-rhyme sample.
Every word is aching with the confession of the motley fool;
it’s so true—I really hate myself when I’m with you.