You look right through me as though I’m not there
And it hurts a little to know that I mean so little
Little enough that you don’t know me
And you should, by now

I’m an object d’art, a decoration on the fringes, fixture
It’s painful to understand that its about pieces
And not the whole, as I’d always hoped.
Not about a human with a heart, emotions, preferences.

So I sit here, missing cigarettes and needing a drink
Denying myself both, wondering,
why am I still here?


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