i. they told you
you shone bright
like the sun
bright
like the stars in the sky
you wished on every single night
they told you to drop out of school
and write like your life depends on it
study economics, or history
spend all your money and make it all back
change the world, save some lives
don’t throw away your chance
like those who walked before you
swallow your pride; nod along, and do the dance
they told you you shone bright
called you god almighty; called you
sick little thing, no place to call home
they watched you spin your wheels
and waste away in pity
stroked your greasy hair
and pushed a water-glass against your parched lips
ii. so i am god, let’s say
so i am going to save the world
i’m going to make my family proud
with another wikipedia page
and i’m going to be happy
because that’s what makes me happy, right?
and i’m a crying baby in an empty room
i’m singing look at me, look at me
my wretched, crawling vermin heart
my lazy brain
i burn with all my might, i shine like a death rattle
i look in the mirror
and i still crumple like paper, i’m still cold to the touch
when they say,
you’re the dream come true
but you still don’t know that everything i’ve ever made
has been for you
if i’m bright
if i’m warm like the sun
it’s only on the outside
a hollow cast of paper-mache
’cause inside, i’m black ice
and shivering moonlight
begging for someone to love me so
Most of the time, like every other person on the planet, I love getting compliments. But on hard days, sometimes they make me feel really sad about myself. It can be kind of depressing, to hear someone tell you the things they like about you, when you have no idea what they’re talking about. Like they’re complimenting someone who doesn’t even really exist. But I’m still so desperate for it, desperate to understand that girl they’re talking about, and try to be her as best as I can. Because she seems like she’s doing all right. Like she at least comes across as though she knows what she’s doing in life.
Sometimes I think that I make art because I love it. And I do. That remains static, always. But sometimes, it becomes less about the art, and more about proving something. About getting attention, any kind of attention, to fill the holes in my chest. It gets tangled up in all these other things too, and I don’t really know how to deal with it yet.