I'M Your Harsh Reality

Don’t misread me with magnificent black of the eye; I’m the mascara flowing through cheeks while you cry. I’m not a part of your puzzle to achieve it, I’m the piece which might crush you into a thousand ones. I’m not Shakespeare’s Daffodils or one of his sonnets; I’m Franz Kafka’s unpublished manuscripts. Don’t mistake me for your fantasy, I’m the burnt and destroyed pages of your diary. I’m not the warmth of cigarettes after sex, I’m chaos. Don’t distract me for shiny morning faces; I’m the tired, sleep-deprived face with countless acne. I’m not your therapist; I’m the enduring impressions of your wounds. I’m not smooth hair; I’m the coarseness and the damages of your feet. I’m not your mother’s gentle care, I’m the tanned arms and the unwanted facial hair. I’m not the fragrance after a shower; I’m the perspiration after hard work. I’m your lazy weekends and rejected love. I’m not long lasting ties, I’m the aggression after a heartbreak. I’m no valentine’s rose; I’m the ammunition in a war. I’m not the Instagram stories and captions; I’m those drafts you never craved to post. I’m the hangover that accompanies, not the hilarious late night parties. I’m not what they discern, I’m your hidden frustration. I’m no beach to your roaring anxiety; I’m unwanted break-ups, unanswered calls and deleted messages. I’m not what you pretend to be, but I’m what you’re sorry to see. So don’t misinterpret me for yet another shoulder to break down on because I am not your beautiful falsity, I am your harsh reality.