Self Inflicted

it's funny the way size doesn't reflect severity, and a million shallow cuts couldn't affect your view of me. the way no one will notice.. there's nothing wrong with me, today. how easily i hide it, i pull it off gracefully, as pretty as a powdered actress, a malignant movie-star. it's ironic, the way nothing i do is worthwhile. and i couldn't be less influential. how you couldn't think twice to care. the whole of me could be, all-encompassing, universal in mass, and enmity, my feelings so passionate they burst and writhe in flame, furious and obstinate, loud, and hot, and burning your cheeks. still you'd never turn your head to see. smoke choking your eyes and filling your throat. still you'd lay, impersonal. somehow i wish i was so much more like that, severe and rash and impossible to forget. unthinking of time or consequences without insecurity or influences but i, as mine, rear my ugly head reveals itself, disguised, in truth it is my fear of you. shocking logic with faithless eyes its jeering smiles a mockery voloptuous lips, all bright with blood seductive and curling, tempting and moist, around glass-white canines reflecting all the flaws, and, ferocious, its eyes glitter with jealousy. but, oh, don't play it up, drama queen. there's been harsher mistresses than you.