Chatoyant
My moods they change, ever change,
Light filtered via teardrop spheres;
Clear and bright, grey and grim,
And with their shift, their list and drift,
Comes the bruiser's punch of reclusive fears.
Of me they see whatever there might be,
Surface skin on a frame of lust;
Locked and loaded, slick with ease,
The hollow taint of harlot paint,
An illusion as thin as mirror dust.
My needs they blaze, splutter out,
Suffocate to death in flurries of snow;
They perceive, make judgement calls,
And yet the deal on how I feel
Is not for them to know.
Of me I know the flinching truth,
Understanding of what I've done;
Sour and sharp, so cheaply sold,
Sincerely concede when all that I need
Is to love and be loved by someone.
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