i think i'm beautiful. alright, maybe not beautiful, but pretty. pretty vain. pretty mean. "pretty" (a word that has plagued my childhood, and my teenage years too and which has remained ingrained into my brain, a tiny incision that refuses to heal)
dumb pretty little thing, because i was and am and will be doe-eyed, honeyed words, white lies, spun on a whim, on the spot, sticking to my palms so that they cannot be washed off. dumb because it suits me, because i can, and the truth is ugly, and i am ugly when i speak too. dumb, because it's easy.
i know it's unfair to you, to others, but each time sarcasm drips from your voice, i revert back to my worst self. you drape me in taunts and other meaningless things which hurt me still, and i laugh them off with some more hurtful remarks, i annoy you back, i go for the neck in every fight. everything can become a fight if you're always looking over your shoulder, restless and scared. i mask the scent of my hurt with perfume, and i laugh it off, everything, all of it, you all over me. (i hate you a little more every time you make fun of my slip ups, even if it's just poking fun. "dumb" echos in my head, and i throw up in my head. only in my head)
there is a certain science to touch. i bring my hand to rest on your shoulder, your arm, i giggle a little too high while in your lap, i try to get both of us drunk. dumb pretty little thing, that knows what they're doing a little too well. i like being liked, i adore being wanted. wanted, needed are synonymous to me, i tug on a little top, that shows too much cleavage, i wrinkle my nose in the mirror at my own reflection. i think they're a bitch, a sell out. i put on my shoes, and leave.
"fake it till' you make it" are my mother's favourite words. did i make it, though? am i yet like the shiny girls they used to put in front of me on the big TV? i try being easy on the eyes, but it doesn't come naturally to me, i have to try harder, i know, i know. effort pays off, as does being dumb, as does shutting up, as does playing along to the part.
dumb pretty little thing, because it's easy and i would hate to dissipate the illusion for you and them both, i would hate to grow fangs, i would hate for my skin to split open and show maggots. i would hate to grow sharper, any more strung up and i will die.
