staged romance

•∞•

When they speak of us
they have to put asterisks beside
each rumour,
for tabloids can only
gather so much truth
in our silk ties and satin straps
(why are we so tangled,
so screwed up?).

Papers seem to scandalize
our whispered moans and
rumpled outfits,
our sinful kisses and our
steaming looks
(but they are empty, like
the love in our hearts).

Question marks stamped
in plastered lipstick and forced laughter,
and the arms around our waists
hide the daggers breaking skin
(you dig into me as I do for you,
and we fall silently).

We are walking on a red carpet.
but they do not realize that
our humanity bleeds onto the floor,
seeps into the rugs we saunter on
(be too focused on how beautiful
our shells look glamoured up).

Paid mannequins, freelance scripts
and supervised love,
because we are on a stage of romance
that never lived past the air
(we weren't good at being human,
but we're bloody brilliant actors).

•∞•