Penelope


You suck.
You just really suck.
I just can’t stand your voice or your hair
Your make me want to puke
The way you call me your princess
Your legend
Your salvation
It makes my heart want to quit its job.
I can’t stand your mind, I can’t even find it.
When I look through it, I find a pile of
Fairytales
Allegories
Chivalric romances.
I believe in reality.
You believe in fantasy.
We aren’t a mythical fairytale.
We are real.
Alive.
Felt.
I will not spend another day compared to a myth.
A nuhbdy.
A grey-eyed goddess.
Get off your high horse Quixote.
You’re trying to calm me down, well don’t.
Don’t lecture me on morals and life.
You aren’t Rama.
We can’t find your heroism in the stars.
There is more then just the pages of an epic.
We’re better than that, more than that.
You’re grinning at me, cut it out.
You’re stuck in your own world again.
Where are we now?
Who am I this time?
What Heroine are you making me out to be?
Penelope?
Will I have to wait twenty years for you?
Waiting and dreaming, for this miserable
cunning, white-bearded man to come save me?
Not this time.

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