Selfish
You are desperate to be wanted.
To be desirable,
to be completed by another.
You click, click, click.
The selfies, the lols, the omgs,
The “ur so fit xxx”
The likes and the retweets.
You need to be seen
and you come to me
desperate
downtrodden
on your knees
begging
hinting
at the need to be complimented
so that you can feel good
for a minute.
Dear Lover,
you tell me I'm beautiful
not out of the kindness of your heart
but out of hope that I might say it back.
You hunt through the nice things that I say
and draw them
out from a simple sentence
and fashion them into a novel,
wide-eyed and hopeful
that I might fall at your feet,
petticoats flailing as I descend
and declare that I need you
but I don't.
And I understand,
I have sympathy for you
and your need for constant reassurance
that you are, in fact, good.
I can only apologise,
Dear Lover,
that I cannot build a house before I have learnt to lay the foundations.
I will only break you whilst I make myself.
I am beautiful, yes.
But I am less interested in that
and more in who you think is not.
You tell me I have the looks AND the personality
as though looks matter more
so forgive me,
Dear Lover,
if I seem disillusioned.
I will not tell you such things, and
I shall not feed you shallow compliments
to give you a temporary relief
from your own fabricated hardship.
I will do right by you
and allow you to discover your beauty
for yourself.
Because I will not always be here
And when I'm gone
how will you know?
I am both beautiful and selfish,
yes,
but so are you.
Copyright © Lauren Andrews | Year Posted 2017
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