Simulacrum of Us

We loved like mannequins in a luxury store,

dressed in longing but hollow to the core.

Your eyes sparkled like screens in low light,

never deep, just bright enough to bite.

You held me like a credit card:

swiped fast, then discarded, slightly scarred.

Our promises were like streaming shows,

binge-watched fast, with nothing left to hold.

We raced toward the end credits, the final bows,

then started searching for a brand new scroll.

Our laughter rang like ads between songs —

catchy, forgettable, and painfully wrong.

We kissed like actors rehearsing pain,

staged affection, recycled again.

Your "I love you" came like a sponsored post —

polished, scheduled, and approved by ghosts.

I watched us like reruns of better lives,

curated smiles, like knives in disguise.

You packaged me like a trendy new brand,

with a polished story and a perfect look.

The thrill was in the unboxing, held in your hand,

then the old plastic was tossed in a book.

Your promises bloomed like plastic flowers —

vivid forever, but dead within hours.

We lived like influencers trapped in glass,

craving applause as real joys passed.

Our mornings felt like showroom sets,

with sunlight framed in Instagram threats.

I craved you like truth in a world of spin,

but got only glitter, no soul within.

You were perfect — like a lie with legs,

balanced and poised on market pegs.

Now I sleep beside your digital ghost,

not the real you — just the one you post.

And I see, in the glare of the screen,

you were a beautiful product, a perfect machine—

not born of humanity, but a seed of consumerism,

made only for sale, and a brief, hollow schism.