Bare bricks sneak
From the cracks on the wall,
The bare me
Draped in five metres of artifice,
On six inches of fake confidence,
And ready with the made-up “Yes”.
The red in the cracks, I know,
Doesn’t resemble the red in me.
However the roughness;
It seems, we have
A strange sisterhood.
When I see myself in a mirror
And when my eyes try to glimmer,
I can identify it.
I can feel the friction
The surface offers to the glimmery liquid.
Its fluidity commands it to flow
But the salt often gets trapped
In the bumps and cracks
On my face.
Not important, not beautiful,
I stopped being special, I know
But my attempts;
Smiling gloss in pictures,
Carrying straight my five point six,
Or taking chances with my opinions,
Can they make a change?
For being loved a little less is still
A nocturnal old-teen with Polaroids as eyes that relentlessly shred the Real in discards for the full view of Magic. No qualms in replacing life with theatre, nods with conversations, and humans with...well anything but humans.