I imagine being caught between you — the grip of both worlds, the rush of dopamine, the warmth of the present. Ears buzzing. Vision wet. Focus locked on the wrong thing. A is going her way regardless.

You — with your intensity — sometimes I wonder if I fell for you or for the gallery of you. You sharpened your own features so violently that it changed me. And it worked. You didn’t know what my eyes looked like when they finally allowed themselves to look back at yours. I didn’t know how gorgeous those innocent eyes were until I let myself see them.

But those eyes were never innocent. And I was never the victim.

If I treat you with respect, you won’t get wasted. I watch all these fingertips spinning you up, draining your face value. Saving you before you’re gone makes sense — but that Louie bag buys itself.

I love the company I keep. No influence. No judgment. No gaslighting.

The company I keep is my own chaotic peace of bliss — adrenaline‑laced, self‑built. The trust is euphoric. Euphoria comes from the influence I have on myself. Still lacking the judgment. Her own company doesn’t gaslight her. Her trust in herself is the influence.

The love she feels within herself enhances her self‑ish. She is perfectly okay being alone — especially when the heels can be delivered with one swipe.

There she goes again, taking advantage of you. Making the MK heels worth more than you. But that euphoria‑built trend needs the dress that zips up the back to match the heels.

And just like that, the selfish movement — a simple swipe — used you all up before I could save you.

Would I be this selfish if I had company other than my trustworthy self? Now you’re used up, and the dopamine is depleting like your value.

A memory of “you” matrices into my brain — my thought process inflated with organized ecstasy. I miss those brown eyes. “Your” brown eyes were innocent in their own way.

Blood rushes through my eyes, legs dizzy, mind laced with adrenaline. Used you up — now I need “you.” I never even got my own aura of “you.”

To this day, eyes wide wet, legs closed over you. You never chose me for your dopamine rush. Your intensity ran on gas. You lit my soul on fire. You bombed my love.

Your anxiety‑fueled truth dropped my face value the same way I dropped yours. “You” let birdies die in your ear — their decaying words gassing you up to rid yourself of me.

The vicious cycle — the human vice — is karmic déjà vu.

While I was wasting you away, “you” were wasting us — never smelling the decay of the words that left your influence hungover.

I shouldn’t have been so selfish. I could have saved you. “You” could just do what you say and say how you feel. And the birds could fly south.

“You” — those innocent brown eyes. I forgot what they feel like.

You — I can always get back. Will my self‑indulgence, my love for my own selfishness, get high on the influence again? And what about “you”?

I know what the Prada shoes feel like. I have no clue what “you” feels like anymore.