What a glorious feeling it is
to be dead inside.
Rotting like a corpse
on the inside.
When anything falls out, people
quickly hand it back, saying
PUT THAT AWAY.
Dismiss it as nothing important.
I have been handed back my liver.
Lungs.
Kidneys.
Brain.
Stomach.
Heart.
I have been handed back my heart
And told to shut it up
Many times.
Because it does not matter
to the other dust specks.
My heart does not matter.
I am dead on the inside.
Remember?

You don't like me.
You like the idea of me.
You like the idea
That someone who is
Suicidally depressed
Can make you
Extraordinarily happy.

You like the idea
That my deep
Cynicism and scepticism
Can fuel your
Overjoyed optimism.

You like the idea
That I'm  the
Wonderful, beautiful
Intelligent, nerdy girl
You thought I was.

I am nothing.
I am empty.
I am not an idea.

Ideas are dangerous
Exciting, giggly.
They fill the idealist
With roaring delight.
Such a fantasy
Couldn't be real but in
The mind of a
Surrealist, Idealist
Socialist, Capitalist  
Fascist.

I am not an idea.
Ideas are fun.
I am not an idea.
Ideas get things done.
I am not an idea.
Ideas are good.
Ideas aren't real.

I am real.
I wish I was only
Your idea of me.
I wish I wasn't real.