Fickle

“Who are you? I ask.

You are too hard to read.
One moment you are there
Happy, drooling with affection.
Then you just disappear, and
I find the angry, depraved being
The silhouette of your existence, blurry.
Corrupt shadows lurking
On every wrinkle in your face.

One day I feel infatuated,
The world seems so simple,
We kiss, under the shelter of our own emotions.
Your heavy breath on my skin, venting love.
The next day I find myself
Lying next to a stranger,
mute and transparent
Your glances, bleak and ephemeral
smelling of apathy.
Your words, stinging with that bizarre acquaintance.

Some days you abandon
Me, left alone in the blizzard
with my soul bleeding;
Hurt by your cruel nihilism.
Other days I wake up,
Looking at your sultry visage.
Your hands caressing
and filling me with constant promises;
That tomorrow will be sunnier.

And now, I stare at you.
Everything before me mere obfuscations,
Veiled by my own tears.
The reflection,
With your gaze piercing me,
your vaguely familiar eyes.
I struggle to talk.
But I still breathe the words.

“Dear bipolar. What are you?”

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