She's all black lace and anguish,
bound together by despair, (you
can see this by her eyeliner and
the way she wears her hair.)
Communicating on her terms, the
melancholy spreads osmosis-like,
to infiltrate societys absorbent
head. A self-denying narcissist
with no imagination. She always
keeps her distance, never lets
you in too close, trapped in
selfish isolation, epitome of
morose. Self-deprecation.
Mutilation. Medication. Staples
of the tortured girl. Peel away
the epidermal cliche. Split the
girl from the crutch. Without
the pills, the boots, her books,
you see she's nothing much.
If you cracked her cranium to
masticate her mind, the bitter
taste upon your tongue would say
"You're two of a kind."
*Someone suggested I tut around with rhyme while clock watching in my office, waiting for the longest day ever, to end.*
