Today I’m not wearing anything
except my damaged skin,
which is tearing from my skeleton with every move.
With every other word, injustice
another part tears away and rot,
the same way as I rot.
Who would ever love an attention whore?
Who would want someone with
cuts on their wrist, which are the sign?
Sign of the pain, the courage, the nothingness, the solitude?
Who would want a walking irony
who would wish for something that shouldn’t exist?
Today I’m not wearing anything,
just the torn and rotting skin and
new cuts on that skin, on a thin wrist.
And I’m staring into the mirror and I’m arguing
with my own mind, because I want to be thin.
People like it, when girls are only skin and bones,
it’s the newest trend…
I’m arguing with my own mind, that says that I’m not…
I’m never pretty skinny, or smart enough, or beautiful.
I never have nice hair or flawless makeup.
Today I’m not wearing anything,
I don’t even have that much skin anymore,
there’s nothing to break…
And I’m not creating art, I’m creating chaos, which
is born inside my head.
(Chaos) It’s creating new wounds,
that will never heal,
never.
And I’m staring into the mirror again and I’m smilling.
I’m not arguing with my mind anymore, because
I don’t have free will at all, I’m not me.
Am I perfect? Will society accept me now
since I’m behaving like a sheep?
Will I be someone again, since I don’t think by
myself anymore? I’m not breating, I’m doing nothing.
Today I’m not wearing anything,
maybe just the cold sticky soil…
YOU ARE READING
something happened (poems)
Poesiaráda píšu věci, které nedávají smysl. které nesouhlasí s názory ostatních lidí. které nejsou nic dokonalého. ale tak to má být, protože ani já nejsem dokonalá. cz/eng, protože většina těch rádoby básní, je v eng. možná kdysi byla v cz, ale já or...
