"Malina is much more adept as the heart of the story than Spinelia,"
people exclaimed, reveling in Malina.
I hush before I breathe.
"What quiet sin do you believe lives in my skin?"
Am I too sophisticated for them to perceive?
in another vein— is Malina just the blossom-breath girl in my novella?
I tried my best to be cherished by the stars surrounding me,
I tried to find my rhymes to be with my phantasm of valiant centerpiece,
But why can't the omniscient eyes unveil the truth?
Why do they festive a different heart while I linger here?
I wish I weren't Spinelia; I salivate to be Malina.
Maybe it's imprecation to be the flame in my own anecdote,
Where the watching phantoms only see the thread in the tapestry,
Where omniscience lionizes others as they see themselves in their shoes.
They said my cataclysm is too reverenced;
Malina's debacle is a quiet brilliance.
But as the complexion of this yarn, I am the echo no one hears.
all eyes drowned in the haze of the moon behind the sun in my song of fates,
They began to abhor the sun around which the story spins.