I send a flood—
words and a piece of me,
wrapped up in pixels,
in the stupid hope
you might notice
the light in my eyes.

But all you see
is the weariness
of my bones.

"you look tired,"
you say,
like that’s all
I’ve got to offer.

Of course, I’m tired.
If you’d ever bothered to listen
to my rants, my chaos,
to all the shit I’ve been carrying—
maybe then you’d know
why the hell I look this way.

I could strip myself
bare—
skin and curves
and all that cheap currency—
and you’d be singing
a different tune,
blowing up my phone
like I’m suddenly alive
to you.

Why the hell
do I even bother?
Why the hell
do I still give a damn
about a man
who only sees me
when there’s skin
in the game?

If I were showing some skin,
if I were bending myself
into some goddamn fantasy,
you’d be buzzing like a fly,
swarming, drooling,
lighting up my phone
like I’m the only thing
keeping you breathing.

But now—
I’m just fucking tired to you.

© reddragonfly