My cyclical story does not spin well. A chart plotted in scorn. A predictable, trudging line of lovers. I begin as any other man, trailing scraps of rumors.
Then: From mysterious to misunderstood (I shrug and grin lopsidedly). From romantic, to passionate, to soul-seeing (I chuckle and laugh lightly).

Then the long gap of reconciled realities and discovered unhappiness. Painted as a white backdrop with gray and rainbow smears, pinnacles and plummets. A failure of romantic ideals, splattered with human error.

It always ends the same: He is no man, just a boy. An android. A monster. He cannot give. He is a scorpion.
I smile and nod, sadly.

With silent stoicism, I shoulder the titles and claims. A bearer of arms for self-proclaimed enemies. Letting them all equip themselves with indignant rage, so as to assault my flaws. I am self-perpetuating villainy. Without interaction or retribution, I oppress.

I used to think my closed mouth bought their joy. The heavy cost paid in muted acceptance.
I realize now that I've neither the entitlement- nor currency- to purchase anything other than gradients of their consonance. Suggesting this to myself brings a sharp taste, cheap and metallic. Like sucking on a greasy coin.

11:05 p.m. - 2014-11-19