I am the like you dislike,
the red stripe at the corner of your eye.
You can't help but chase me
then blame the flickering
for not grasping who I am.
You are a dog whose senses
are tickled by briefness,
such as the flashing of a nipple,
or being depressed.
Negativity is the dress I picked this morning,
asking to be raped. It was the fault of my legs
and being a black hole in the first place,
sucking in all the karma of the world.
I was born this way. Born to be stoned.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
If only I had exercised more,
ran faster, did not starve myself
out of shame, then maybe
I wouldn't deserve to be raped
by depression.
Maybe if I wore a more colourful dress,
surpassing my knees, hugging my shape
but not enough to be a w h o r e ... then maybe
I'd be decent and sexy at the same time.
Throw back my head during laughter
and cover the witch-like cackling
red handed.
The fault was exposure of who I really am.
Therefore, I cannot be.
Instead I'll follow the magazines.
Wear mint during summer,
mindfulness when it's trending.
