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how is it that after you've given me so much, I'm still such an unhappy person?

I think about today, and the deluge of tomorrows,

the lullabies you sang, and the sirens that starts the race.

People tap out sometimes, I think,

because they know no matter how many countless iterations of themselves later,

they still feel like everything's a guise, like a rubber band

it always snaps back to its original shape no matter how far and different you make it seem.

after the glamour, after the clothes, after the vanity, after the cloak;

you lay back in bed and return to yourself, the one before he falls asleep.

honestly i hate him. i hate where I am today, what I want to be, and the affirmation so visceral that the dog will keep chasing after its tail and never reach it.

why am i so unhappy? where is the realm of enough?

the mirror always does a bad job at telling lies.

cinderella without the glass slipper moment,

a rags to fantastical riches and back to rags story

except the prince found another girl,

and the only remnants of your glass slipper are the shards punctured into your feet

you can run fast and win the rat race, but you're still a wrenched damn rat at the end of the day.

that's who you are, nothing changes.