She sits still as the cacophony stifles her, as the agony presses on the edges of her reality. As it threatens to close she breaks, falling apart like a shattered wine glass on a hard wood floor. He bleeds as the shards he once held so tightly fly forwards, peirce him, and then finally fly away.
They reform far away, a brittle skeleton of the full bodied laugh they once were.
Her shatters land so far away the screams of her lover cannot be heard. Whether or not he cries she will never know. So far the sound of her laughter carries and is not silenced by the brooding darkness of his being. So far she shines brightly as alas- she is the only star in miles.
She burns the covers they place over her flame and out of the ashes dance the ghosts she refuses to let haunt her.
So fear her. For this time when she breaks it will be a violent explosion that takes with it even the cowering observer.
And she and her smile will be no more.

Every time we speak one of us walks away with crystals of despair falling from our eyes, clenched fists and mouths sewn shut in fear of letting the other know that they hurt us more than they know.

Dear Instagram
When I was a little girl, I made friends with who I found funny, and creative.
When I met you I knew that we would not be congruent.
You, with your self mutilating circus, painting women as clowns in a never ending charade of poses.
And we cry, when not enough strangers find us delectable, when we fail to become the cardboard cutouts of success you have plastered on our walls under goals, next to “college” and “get a job” and “stay alive” and “be happy” sits “be attractive”

Now, I judge you on the inadequacy of your appearance.
As I sit and wait and try to become the cutout you indecently insist I adopt as my own self
Watching those who succeed and turning away from those who fail
Scared to suddenly realize the self inflicted sacrifice was for something not real. Scared to look at the perfect posers and realize I am not them, despising them for being better than me and being repelled by my own indecency.
You have made me hate the person I aspire to become

Dear the online representation of myself.
You are not real
You are something I have pondered for hours, perfected and selected like nonorganic berries
Positioned precisely, a mosaic of pieces forced together to be pretty but not art
Not an expression of self but a desperate plea breathing “look at me, I am broken but I look whole, I am miserable but I will look happy, I do know know why I am here but I will still smile and try to be happy I am just trying to look happy I am just trying to look
I am alone but surrounded by people looking at me for a second and moving on to the next image they found attractive
the people I see for those seconds are not those that I knew because the people I knew were not perfect, they were flawed, each flaw imprinted on the whole like the conclusive strokes in an impressionist painting, making it a painting, not perfect but still beautiful.
I hate myself for not being the perfect parts of someone else
More perfect than possible, a life I wish but am glad I do not have yet pretend I do out of self hatred for being caught in a non violent, invisible charade.