Ms. Pretentious. 

i can buy wine and book a room at most hotels, renting a car is still a little iffy.

I have fabulous tits that protect my ever aching heart.

my name starts with a

little girls i used to be friends with, until they chose her side and allowed themselves to be brainwashed by the mask she wears. little girls who told her about my mental health, and all of my other secrets. little girls who didn’t know they were feeding fuel to the fire…

or maybe they did, most of them were my bullies before my mom spoke to their parents, and then the bullies became my friends.

but they were never really my friends.

they pushed me down and out.

suppressed me to make me more palatable.

they were mean, and i was 13.

my mom adopts daughters who have razor sharp teeth, like her. she spends more time with them, seeks it out. always has.

i bore my fangs to her once, but they weren’t rows upon rows of terror, they didn’t match her’s. they were broken and worn down from the pressure, a jaw that had never known a day unclenched.

today i’m 22, but my mom is still choosing them. posting beautiful pictures of them with flowery words about inner beauty and perfection.

The only photo she’s posted of me was an advertisement for fucking valentine’s day mini shoots. It wasn’t even a pretty picture, i was sticking my tongue out to match our toothless fucking dog.

her toothless fucking dog.

nothing that’s tied to her belongs to me. Not even my face, my voice, anything that makes me a perfect, gummy little replica of everything she didn’t want me to be.

you think you’re all crystals and sea glass,

when all you have to offer is broken up dreams you stuff down the pipe they came in until you choke.

you don’t realize the pipe is your mind, connected to your gullet. choking back your sobs as you shove another shard of brokenness down because the only option is to swallow it.

don’t show them you’ve failed.

let it shred up your esophagus so the physical can start to distract from the stabbing pain in your heart.

you don’t realize eyes staying dry doesn’t make you strong, it make you the weakest mother fucker around because what do you mean you can’t stand to be sad? mad? disappointed?

you should be fucking outraged!

grown ass woman and still just an abused child.

pathetic.

wax poetic.

nothing but a disfunctional bum trying to heal while they’re still getting pissed on and beaten. not knowing any better than to stay there, complacent and loyal.

none could stay, they were never really me. just fragments of who i thought i myself to be. a timeline of leather, zippers and studs. all temporary after you put them through the ringer.

how funny is it…that a woman can go through so many pairs of shoes, and still have no idea where she’s going.