Sweetheart

Oh, sweetheart, your diploma in mystic gibberish is framed so nicely.
You sleepwalk through every Tuesday convinced you’re an unsolvable riddle.
And all those sweet lies you served me with a straight mouth and a wine glass —
I’m still picking my teeth with the splinters.

You’re not stardust, babe, you’re just dust with a PR campaign.
I’m done clapping for your low-budget cosmic charade.
Go on, soak in the tragedy of your own meticulously lit reflection —
I’ll be over here finally unclenching my jaw.

That slik hard shield you polish every morning with self-help quotes
cracks the moment someone asks a question longer than four words.
How exhausting, to be the tragic lead in a story nobody auditioned for.
I’d slow-clap, but I’m busy yawning.

So step up and show me one real nerve, or just shut the fuck up for good.
I’m not your mirror, I’m not your father, I’m just a former fan redecorating with spite.
The air in here tastes clean now.
And your cosmic dust? Keep the bag.

You’re not stardust, babe, you’re just dust with a PR campaign.
I’m done clapping for your low-budget cosmic charade.
Go on, soak in the tragedy of your own meticulously lit reflection —
I’ll be over here finally unclenching my jaw.