See Through Ya

A love grenade ticks down to a bouncy beat, and on its shards are the gloss of teenage dreams: "James Dean," a shop window, a trophy with a bow. Control wrapped in tenderness, emojis instead of handcuffs, calls like fireworks outside the entrance. This whole red flag parade is shining so brightly that it's both funny and painful at the same time. But the haze lifts: my vision sharpens, and the image comes into focus. "I see right thru you" sounds like a mantra of liberation - not a scandal, but a firm walk out the door. And even if my heart is bruised, it chooses the open air, not a shop window.