As time goes on,
your rehearsed exterior
gathers holes
- erratically, it seems.
They congregate,
like moths on your weakening frame;
frayed at the edges
and tatty.
I can peer through,
and I can see your loneliness
and sometimes your hate.
Then you will collect yourself.
Pulling in the folds and swathes
in a vain attempt
to recover your modesty.
Recreating your existence,
only smaller.
With less fabric left over
and fewer places to hide.
As time goes on,
your rehearsed exterior
gathers holes
- as expected.
I need only wait,
until you fall to shreds.
And then you will be mine.
Author notes
A popular one from my devART account.
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