don't call call me those things, for i am fragile like stained glass and i will break apart into millions of tiny shards. you can't put me back together the way i once was, my cracks will always be visible, branching off off off away. i don't know why i'm writing, what i'm writing, who i'm writing (who i'm writing for?). this poetry is void of purpose; it does no help - that voice in the back of my mind is still screaming at me and i push it down until i choke on it. fuck, i taste it in my throat, it's in my veins, in my bloodstream - you're in my bloodstream. your words echo around my cavernous skull, bouncing bouncing bouncing breaking. i am fractured, you are fractured, this is fractured. i use italics too much and run-on sentences like murky blue rivers that don't stop flowing until they fall. (off a cliff? into the ocean? you know what they say: out of sight, out of mind.) fuck, i did it again: i used one of those stupid, pointless metaphors that doesn't really make sense but it sounds pretty and it paints me in those lovely pastel shades i want to dream in. i want to sound pretty, i want to be pretty. draw me like one of your french girls. i don't think i'm pretty enough for that, for flowers and paintings and true love. true love. sounds like something to scoff at, but honestly, everything is something to scoff at. what is love and what makes it true? that question sounded too pretentious, i want to rip it off the paper - but joke's on me, i'm typing this. i don't always make sense, but i don't have to, because this is stupid poetry and it does nothing to soothe me. i pour out my thoughts like an oil spill and pollute the water while i'm at it. i'm not sure what water is supposed to be in this badly thought-out metaphor, but it might be people, it might be my friends, my family - it might be me, but then again, i'm never sure about much. i'm indecisive. i can never chose where i want to go for dinner and somehow that spurs a fire in people's eyes - a muted fire, something more brown than red. sometimes i feel red, like a crimson stain on a white blouse. the dryer's broken. (that was another stupid metaphor, wasn't it?)
