what i don't know can't hurt me.
"my imagination's much worse."
the backs of my eyelids play scenes of movements made when i don't linger on the sidelines.
but i think i only want you in the way a gamophobe loves the thrill of the chase.
to get the ribbon pinned on my lapel just to toss it seconds later.
it always come down to a game of this or that,
nowversusthen.
a common thread in all matters of my life.
but i guess there are no competitors when i was never in the running.
"adversaries are insane,"
words written by twain, repeated by ross, and forever tethered to a boy who wades through an overgrowth of scorpion grasses.
sometimes out of the corner of my eye, you remind me of him.
but then i turn and your features shift back to their rightful place,
and all of his goodwill evaporates.
and then i'm left with what remains.
only you.

in certain light, you look sort of pretty.
well, almost.
your appeal only goes so far,
most of your purpose relegated to acting as fodder to fill blank pages or satisfy blinking cursors.
besides, it gives my twitching fingers something to do, and it occupies the vacant space in this cave i call a chest.

funny, all of this because i can't break the habit of vying for the attention of people who wouldn't give me the time of day without first seeing me on my knees,
who peer over the deck railing as i dig my my nails into the side of the hull before the waves pull me under.
a faucet that loves to run hot and cold just to watch me melt and freeze.
but nothing repels me from the allure of the stovetop,
even the burn.
the girl who never learned.

but hey, at least i put on a good show, right?
whatever it takes to fill the seats or keep the eyes fixated on my form.
because only acknowledgement confirms my existence & 
proves that my tangibility isn't something i deluded myself into believing.
i don't have the bragging rights of a winner,
but at least i get the pity of an underdog.
silver kids like me take what we can get.

abby