She wrote the book on betrayal

Catalogued a series filled with subtle errors and condescending undertones

She mismatched earnest remarks with languid gazes

And marked meaningless references with sticky tabs

To be brought up out of context when needed

She bought permanent markers and redacted specific names and places

She took a green highlighter and punctuated every seventh word so, skimming, a certain intended meaning emerges

She even strung my feelings wrong, and

Hung pages upside down so casual readers skip those sections

Fabricated dilemmas take center stage with their bold contrasting characters and screwball antics

No one here really resembles me anymore, this part should go to a professional actor

You see, she’s stolen our tragic classic and written it over as a cheap drama

How brutal, how vain, how inhuman our eyes look when we look at each other now


One thought on “Drama

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