The self-invite is my faux pas of social law,
a line never crossed by any expense.
Coin toss of awareness flips in my eyes;
the outcast’s scent is home in my nose.
I know these handled ropes, my presence
can please more in rationed doses. A diet of
neglected faces, stale texts, and dazzled
profile pages feed my thinning desire for you.
Because somehow I’ve made your probation list,
no dished crime comes to mind besides the
ambivalence lacing my oxygen. It’s an easy excuse
put to quick use by the lack of calls.
Feels almost good to help friends by not showing up,
no disruption to those who lower the blinds
on my unsavory aura. Embrace this solitary dance,
each breath for now, past friendship trials won’t spare
my omission from your rhyme.
Shame on wasted sentiment, I’ll take no special treatment.
A dying shine in a magpie’s eye isn’t revived
by half-assed smeared polish.