Lola

Why do I travel to places I’d never go

[builtfrombrokenthings]

In the Dressing Room

by Lola

I leave my real name in the dressing room

next to my fake lashes and cheap perfume.

The lights are hungry—

they only love me

when I shine.

My knees are sore,

hips bruised from learning grace

the hard way.

Every spin takes something—

a breath,

a thought,

a little more of the girl who came in smiling.

But when the music leaves,

I rise.

I wear my pain like perfume.

I make it beautiful,

because that’s the job—

to turn ache into art

and sell it by the minute.

When it’s over,

I take off my heels,

set them beside my bed

like relics of someone stronger.

And in the silence after,

I listen for my name.

Sometimes,

I still hear it.

[builtfrombrokenthings]

Burning Butterfly

by Lola

You’re burning butterfly,

your wings wrapped in flames.

The more you fly,

the more you ache —

the more you’re in pain.

If you land,

you burn the ground,

and take with you

every living thing

that creeps around.

So you fly high

as the flames combust,

and watch your wings

turn into dust.

[builtfrombrokenthings]

Portrait of Her Pain

by Lola

I see her weeping —

I peel her off the glass.

I paste her on my canvas

in hopes you glance

as you walk past.

Do you see all her messy?

her pain?

Do you see her sorrows

that fester in her veins?

When I look back in the glass

there I see her.

I wish I could hug her,

hold her,

tell her I love her

and I’ll keep her.

But the glass won’t let me through.

Her tears fall slowly,

the same as the condensation on my mirror.

I hope I can depict

the pain she feels.