the thing i hate about this world? it’s all about accessories. oh, we make out like the deep stuff is important, but we are just all so damn materialistic. the only reason anyone tells me i’m pretty is because i spend hours in front of the mirror trying to paint a smoky eye just so. if i showed up barefaced in sweats everyone would ask me if i was tired. and the funny thing is, i am tired. i am so damn tired of so many people talking around me and speaking over me. there’s not even any quiet in my head because the little voices want me to feel what it is like to have to work for the complements. they whisper, you’re nothing, you’re monochrome, just a collection of silly trend pieces that someone’s going to throw away when they go out of style.
manufactured rain cloud.
you ever felt like some stuff just isn’t gonna change? like you’re trapped here and you’re gonna be living this life like forever? no? well, then that’s the problem, isn’t it? you don’t understand how hopeless it gets when everyone just thinks you’re the stuck-up rich bitch with no social skills. there’s no going up from there. there’s no making friends from there. no matter where i go, no matter what i do-i’m not stupid, all right? i get that i’m off-putting. so that’s the reason, all right? that’s why i want the training. because you’re just like me. well, not exactly like me, but you get the drift. i bet a lot of people didn’t like you when you were younger. and you’re the best in your field, the absolute best. and so am i. people like you and i...we got this manufactured rain cloud hanging over our heads. i say “manufactured” ’cause a lot of people will tell us we cause our own sadness because we act like we’re better than other people. but what’s the point in faking it? we are better! there’s no point in making other people feel good about their own mediocrity. we-we’re exceptional people. aren’t i allowed to point it out?
bathed in the neon thunder of a glaring sign,
skin glowing like a god,
how can you say that you are evil?
what dark power moves your hands to caress my skin,
to whisper the gospels in my ear,
every breath a song?
if you are a sinner, then i must be one too, for there is no explanation for the things i feel for you.
the room of my dreams is made of pink leather,
designed by a swedish lady with a mole on her nose,
she sketches impossible thin lines with a charcoal pencil,
then gives the camera a little smile.
fade to black.
dye your hair in every shade of the rainbow,
paint your face with happiness, instead of trying to cover up perceived flaws.
live for now and don't care that they think you're weird.
dance to every song on the radio.
they think you are sad songs and meme-worthy angst, a mess of coffee and hashtags and carving out your place in the world. but what they don't know is that your niche is exactly the right size and you fit it perfectly.
don't apologize for your carefree spirit and dirty jokes. sing loud.
delicate but deadly.
on the outside i am
sweet and quiet and angelic
but on the inside
a monster roars with wordless animal rage.
i look like a rose,
but no one ever notices that i have thorns.
i was not made to be subtle.
some were born to follow, mindless slaves to the whims of the pointless. they are good people and they are sometimes brave people, and they are subtle and full of design. i was not made to be one of them. instead i was born to be a star, as equally likely to burn out as i am to explode, to shower all who behold me in sparks of light.
girls love girls and boys.
let's try this, we say, like we do with the boys, but with each other this time. undo the buttons on my shirt one at a time, then trace the lines of my new bra, cupping my breasts, spanning my waist, cradling, rocking, tongues-in-each-others-cheeks, pin me down and don't let me go until you give me a thousand kisses.
but we're just drunk on each other and the wild night, after all. you and i aren't...we'll go back to our boyfriends in the morning and everything will be normal, normal, normal. surely we are just trying to shock our friends. we don't feel this way. we can't.
but in the morning we will look at each other across the hall and we will say nothing but we will both know. the next time he is making you hot and cold with the rhythm of his breath you will think of the time we spent together and you will know. and the next time i fantasize about your wild limbs i will know.
everyone knows but no one knows what to do about it.
no one wants you when you have no heart.
when on earth did you decide
that people didn't matter?
that lives were just objects
broken and scattered?
there must have been a time when
life seemed young for you.
what made you cold,
shutting the world out
cynicism and mind games
sharp tongue, sharper knives?
what made you lose sight
of the hundreds of thousands of different sunrises
of the smiles of children
of the little things that make the world a little less cruel?
you're so beautiful on the outside, bones of gold and ivory smiles
but that can't hide the emptiness inside, a hollow mocking echo.
you see, it doesn't matter how you look at all
for no one wants you when you have no heart.
everything you say is perfect, guaranteed to please. you've never made a faux pas or stuttered or stumbled. you can be genial and polite with most anyone. your lips are pink and plump and they sparkle with rosy glitter.
everyone loves you. how could they not?
but here's the thing. when we see each other across the room, your eyes light up with a hint of recognition. because they all trust you, but you don't trust them.
i think inside, you're lonely and smart and a little bit offbeat. but externally...you're a neon goddess and that's all we can see.