i don't really know who i am,
what i could be.
i am nothing more, and at the same time,
i am nothing less.
of what?
of societal standards or parental expectations?
am i nothing more than brand name shoes and a number threaded into the hemline of my denim?
am i not truly human,
just someone who craves humanity?
just someone who is starved of insanity?
where sarcasm and whit, are the finer things in life.
instead of some expensive white wine and
the cliche of imported-from-france caviar.
and oh,
how could i forget that fancy new car?
i am dumb and reckless,
like a bottle of whiskey
and a
half-lit cigarette.
i am shameful
and sad,
much like the all too familiar bathroom floor,
where skinny is the new 'chic'
and beauty is no
more.
i am broken
just like all of those records you used to spin.
where the music is scratched from admiration and age,
just like an old book, where you must carefully lift every page.
i am fragile, like a haunting piece of art,
one where you have to argue whether the artist
accidentally or on purpose painted pretty
scars.
i am recklessdumbfragileshamefulsadbroken,
but that wasn't enough for you.
so you broke me in,
and put me out.
i wasn't a name or a face
a piece of fine literature, music, or art,
to you i was just another one born with a desperate heart.
i was nothing more.
just another one running away from society
and the strict standards they indulge in.
another one who knew loneliness better,
than it knew her.
another girl who lives, if you could even call it that,
with a that broken record constantly playing in her head.
another one who won't stop hearing it until shes dead.
so,
she died.
-r.m
