Articles of Infatuation

One: Heart beats.
Two: Heart aches.
Three: Heart breaks.

My Eager Little Dreamer,

I wrote myself these Articles of Infatuation.
I raised the walls of my Doll’s House.

I didn’t recognize that in fourth grade, when Ms. Filkow-Murray scrawled and underscored
“Books before boys,” in Sharpie,
I should have listened.

But.

His hot air was so pervasive, permeating, and persuasive.

Heart beats.
Heart aches.
Heart breaks.

It’s cliché to get played,
by some dude you’ll soon see, in pre-distressed jeans, cumming soon to a theater near you.
Strumming some silver Stratocaster in the corner of some Hard Rock Cafe, asking to trade nudes
with his dudes. His date? MIA.

Status update! Rekindling an old flame with some side-chick on Tinder at table 5A.

He’s a lead guitarist rocking that fuckboy quiff, voice delicious as Animal-Style fries, red velvet
lips quiver quick. Picture this, you paparazzo: his nimble fingers slide down your fretboard to
lick slick rock-and-roll riffs In-N-Out and Drive-Thru your G string. Then⁠—gasp⁠—he picks you,
yeah you, as Juliet to his Romeo. Girl, don’t you know: That play
is filed under “Tragedy” for a reason. His feelings change like bedsheets at Four Seasons.

Please, it’s archetypical.

Same old, lame old Anti-Hero’s Journey actually an attempt to achieve climax. Don’t send
Nobody into the Cyclops’s cavern. No, seriously. Don’t send anyone nor attempt to penetrate
Trojan walls by horse. Don’t bring the tempo of your finger-picking to a tantalizing crescendo⁠—

Heartbeats.
Heartaches.
Heartbreaks.

It’s cliché to get tricked,
by cheap sleight of hand and optical illusions. The greatest vanishing
acts happen when the assistant is attractive.

We the People of the Unsaved Seekers of Affirmation,
We cling like leeches to toxic Torvalds. We are bloodthirsty to ride the red, get swept off our
feet, cheeks red as beats, heartbeat increased.

Buzz-buzz. Vibrates in the pocket of my pants. Pulse picks up. Hello?
Yes Ma'am. I’ve been classically conditioned, decanted to believe
Infatuation equals validation.

Hearts beat, ache, break.

It's cliché to get played.

Remember ladies: Jill is fully capable of playing The Whore, as well as playing the whore.
Her brother Jack’s a huge dick, and, if he asks for pics or more, please: Ignore the little shit.

My Dearest, Aurora, doesn't let his needle prick.
A prick's precisely what this kid is: a first-person shooter with the aim
to get laid or paid in praise. (Does he really expect to be lauded when he calls dumb shit gay?)

If life is a game, then love's a co-op walkthrough.
You can't choose someone who'll drop
                                                                you.

My dude, to conclude:

If he's always acting like an alpha,
a real omega acid trip,
and all that attention? Suspect he’s Lovin’ it?

Drop him.

Walking away isn’t cliché.
Write your Declaration. Escape.

Love,
The Girl Formerly Known As “Lust on the Brain”

P.S. Pronouns flipped? Same shit.

Rayne Alarcio (they/them) is a nonbinary poet born and raised in the eternal summer of Los Angeles, California. Their work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, featured in two award-winning WriteGirl anthologies, included in Exposition Review, and displayed for millions of people in transit at Los Angeles International Airport’s Terminal 7-8. They are currently working towards their B.A. in English from Kalamazoo College. Find them @raynealarcio on Twitter/X and Instagram, and at raynealarcio.com.