I think I loved you, once,
before I lost myself in you.
Before the thought of being free
lead me to being bound to you,
and all I could think about was the next chore, the next push,
the next thing to get through,
losing all joy in the work to simple,
tedious
duty.

You'd probably call it a luxury problem;
beloved and adored,
the darling of the bunch.
With fans, as if that was ever something
to strive for.
Mh. I never really felt that way;
looking to the other debutantes I felt
odd
and angular;
so much talent in one space,
the Raven, the Moon,
all those names that flitter through your consciousness when you think
femme
and me, somewhere in there,
perhaps.

Did I twist to fit your needs, or did I bend you to fit mine?
Both, maybe, but that still means
that I lost part of myself in the pursuit.
It is to be expected; fantasy
begets fantasy,
and like the terrible, wonderful lover you are
you'll always draw me back in,
even after I kill
my proverbial
babies.

"Don't cry because it's over.
Smile because it happened."
Well, horse shit. It's not like
you ever really understood what it was
that you liked about me;
nor I about you.
Was it my gender or my sex, baby?
The way I turned you on
or
the way I made you dream?

Let's cut it short.
We've both got places to be.