Lanzarote

 Lanzarote

It’s not hard to see
why they hate the tourists here—

The show-offs,
the painted women on the arms of men
who bought their names in bricks and sea views,
the louts,
slurring through nights on streets they’ll never care to know.

They come for the name.
To say Lanzarote like a trophy
over tapas they butcher in English.
To tag a sunset,
to prove they were here.
To wear the island
like a hat they’ll toss aside.

Yes—
it’s beautiful.
But it’s more than an alcohol destination.

It’s home.
Not a backdrop.
Not your budget Eden.

You’re tolerated—
your laughter swallowed,
your presence smiled at for pay.
But they don’t love you.

They remember the island
before you filmed it.
They live here still
after you’ve gone.

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