I can't dare to be handled/ to be fucked with/

With increasing levels of simplicity comes decreasing levels of others' understanding of you. As if somehow your indifference is miscommunicated in the sound waves and then later on appears as an underlying sarcasm sprinkled with a pseud-philosophical perspective. I am nothing of that. Calm down with the critical analyzations! There's no mystery wrapped inside my bra, there's no romantic background music, there's no such thing as "forever" in my book at this point in time. As a matter of fact there is no book. I'm a short-handed poem written in Spanish now being processed underground. Some people ask with the intention of wanting to hear certain responses. Some people flip it around towards themselves; like narcs that stare at themselves in the mirror until their eyelashes fall off. Some people want you to find out their deepest darkest secrets. "Some people" isn't me. If I have secrets, you won't know, I won't tell. If I ask a question, give it to me straight. If you want to talk, I'll pretend my past, presents, and futures are put on hold for you. I want it to be easy and I want it to be simple. No more, no less, no games, I'm done with games.