You're A Mess || Tony Perry ✔️

iv

Cold white walls, keep you from your pad and pen
You just wanna stab again
I can't believe it's half this hard
You never knew your mind was dark, no

She sometimes even got locked in a room which was often white, as she had told me once she escaped or got released. It was supposed to make her 'creative juices flow''. She said that the crispness of the white made her feel uncomfortable somehow. Now I get it. When she got locked away, it was usually during times of darkness, or disobedience, and she was so used to her mood reflecting off of her and into other people, so she found it unnerving when the walls stayed their perfect shade of white, and didn't absorb her darkness.

You could call her conceited, but she couldn't help it. Growing up in the spotlight does damage to young children. It's almost as if the spotlight was a bird of prey, the child its next victim. Hollywood was like that, always taking in more that it could chew, then spitting it out when they didn't meet up to a set of strict expectations. Those who were left in its  sharp beak were brainwashed, they forgot what it was like to be normal and went on to live a glamorous life like the world depended on it. They obviously hired someone to deal with the hate mail.

The trickiest part of their sickening scheme was trying to get through to people who the glam world had taken custody of. She and I, luckily, had been very close before fame struck, and we had managed to keep in touch. Many speculated that we were an 'item' , and disapproved of my 'way of expressing myself'.

She begged me not to change, to stay the same forever. And I promised her that I would try, swearing on every bone on my body. But in the end I wasn't the one to change, she was. She hated it, but you can't escape experiences, they come with life. Let's just say, these experiences were forced on her. Her body went into overdrive. Hell, she went to hospital, but no one gave a fuck. They just waltzed by like nothing had happened.

Even when she took a blade to her misery, not a single head turned out of empathy. They all called her an attention seeking whore and she ended up running away to my hometown, which, mind you, was one hour away from her residence at the time, and showed up at my doorstep, bawling her eyes out.

I was never gifted in the act of consolation, but with her I tried everything I could to make one of her dimpled smiles brighten her face.
Just as I was drifting into a sleep-deprivation induced slumber, she whispered something made me sit up abruptly, cradling her in my arms, evaluating the whole situation.

She had admitted to trying to end her life, to cut off her vitality. Or to put it in a much simpler context, she was suicidal.