On Hinge d
For A.
I feel sorry for you.
You can move
but you will always be with you.
Wherever you go,
you will go, too.
Your shallowness,
will come too.
Your selfishness
as well.
Your insatisfaction,
will stare at you,
behind every clueless girl,
who shares dinner with you.
The older you get,
the sadder it will be,
and the harder to elude
your responsibility.
You think you will become an artist through academy.
Guess what?
Being an artist is about authenticity.
Not fucking papers and bureaucracy.
Being an artist is about vulnerability.
Sowing seeds of potential, in everything you see.
It’s not seizing the opportunity.
It’s not breaking others so you can breathe.
You will never be an artist.
You can have technique,
even craftsmanship,
two motherfucking master degrees!!!
But a selfish heart will always be sick.
Never will it foster true intimacy,
needed to live a life of wonders, and creativity.
Only a sick heart leaves other hearts in debris.
Thank you for wasting my time,
so women like me can experience first hand,
what mediocrity looks like.
I wonder how long you can continue
with your emotional scams
you think there will be no consequences
well, maybe not immediate ones.
This is for the many men,
dishonest, like you.
Pulling the same tricks and techniques
to rush artificial intimacy,
straight from ChatGPT.
“How many siblings do you have?”
“What was your childhood like?”
You have your phrases,
your style and strategy,
but what I really wish you had
is accountability.
Good luck in Thessaloniki.
No longer will you continue
treating women like objects absent of dignity
without at least some of them seeing you
through my eyes completely.
Looks like life can indeed get more embarassing,
than packing groceries at PicNic.