Binary
Do you ever get the feeling your life is like a segment of the Truman Show? Every move you make and everything you say and every thought that passes your way – it is constantly watched, constantly judged by someone more pretty and more comfortable and more loved up.
And there she is, glamorous, sitting on her ruby couch, glossy legs outstretched. Crossed, daintily. Her long crimson nails are hooked around the crystal glass. Red wine lips. She is sitting there. Watching you. Judging. Criticizing. Laughing. And all you can do is passively play along. You are her toy. Her puppet. With every smirk and smile and blink she has you enraptured and you cannot break free, as hard as you try. You have been cast under her spell. You are her subservience. You are the flute she plays when she wants to sing the song of life, power, love, control, passion, zest, success.
And with you, she brings him forward. Glint in eye, she curls those crimson nailed fingers beckoning him. Drawing him closer. And he places his fingers upon her neck as she throws her head back, eyes shut, eyebrows arched, lips dry. Her heart is beating faster, her pupils are dilated, her hair is on end. Still, through the passion, ecstasy, magnetism, she is watching you. She cannot take her eyes off of you. She judges and criticizes and laughs.
And you are standing, staring blankly back. Your hair is limp, falling across your down-turned face. Your mouth is somber, your eyes glassy and wet and self pitying. You are a black and white sketch, and she is the Mona Lisa.
You are a jigsaw. You fit together as no one has fit together before. You are binary.