i tell you drunk texts are sober thoughts
and you reply with 8 simple letters,
followed by 1 question mark.
"is that what you want to hear?"
a skip of my heartbeat is the only answer i need

im not the girl that parties with strangers on friday nights
to drown her broken past
with a large bottle and a little white pill

im not the girl that sends scandalous pictures by night
and wears a pristine uniform by day
for her picture perfect parents

im not the girl that appears okay with the sun
but after the moon comes out
her porcelain skin is bloodied and bruised from her own monsters

no, im not that girl.

so who the hell am i to you?

its an epidemic
of sickeningly perfect
parallel
red lines

its an epidemic
of sweatshirts
pulled far over hands
and pants
too long for the weather

its an epidemic
of numbers too high
almost as high
as ponytails of girls
on their knees in bathrooms

its an epidemic
of fake smiles
of two coats of foundation
over a red splotchy face;
finish it off with waterproof mascara
to hide the stains

its an epidemic
i know you know of it too

the artists of words know
its 2a.m. when the words come retching out
after an hour of damp papers
they weren't supposed to come out
not today
no, you can't tell your friends
because only a poet knows
the ****** battle
you are fighting
inside your
head.

why are we like this
spilling words onto paper
in dark lit rooms
with doors closed
heartbreak playing
like a record
and my heart
is the record player