How were you once my friend?
Only demons whisper your inadequacies
from cold shoulders
Never will you find one speak the truth,
lest it cuts itself with its own forked tongue
Why wasn't I born the daughter my mom
always wanted?
I can't help who I am or the quintessential
mind that burdens me
I try and I change but it's never enough
Will I ever be enough for myself?
For others?
If only I could put on mascara and sundresses
and live like hot messes
Yet my body is a coffin that's not open casket
Do I really need to become fake
so that I can feel more real?
I know my grandma wouldn't talk to me
Nor would my friends take me seriously
I wouldn't believe me
Sadly, I sacrifice my personal feminism for
a pessimistic piece of work
Why do I have to be? Why couldn't I have just been?
YOU ARE READING
A Meaningless Collection
PoetryA collection of variously themed poems that I write mostly on my commute to class or when I can't find a reason to fall asleep.
