Ain’t me, the enigma; sorry, but no …

That enigma of unpredictability – that

slashing and hurting 

of happiness 

as it flowers – is not of my 

doing, nor my natural instinct.

In truth, left to my

own de-

vices – whether technological or

just a quick fuck

here or there – I’m the happiest soul you ever

did meet.

And it takes very little to make me so much 

happier; and it takes 

very little – the little 

yous have become – to turn me into 

the saddest man,

as you all do go ahead and 

press the buttons that –

inevitable – make me that baddable bad.

And so really, truly, if you loved me as you say,

at the very minimum

you’d rarely 

feel obliged to do 

as you do.

You’d allow me my non-

conformism, the things that 

make me laugh

out loud: you’d not only tolerate 

but positively celebrate 

the difference that makes me exactly

what I am.

And yet, even as you profess-

or 

your prejudice,

like twisted all-

egation shared 

throughout

the nous,

little can I do when I’m all alone 

with yous

to survive your persistent negations

with the elation 

my soul’s always gone and needed;

the elation 

my soul’s always bleeded.

My needs are simple; yours anything but.

And so that is why 

I now can see

it’s time to say that tiny goodbye: 

my half is already

done – 

and long.

So what say 

yous? 

Yous also done?

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