You anger me. Forever lingering in the valley of False Pretense, and forcing yourself into the outskirts to support your addiction of being called weird. Who are you trying so adamantly to convince? Yourself or the opinions of the ones which you so arrogantly claim to disregard? Empty Girl.
Who are you?
Waltzing into each day with rehearsed lines and dishonest traits like a stage that is only ever the platform of acting and lies when there are people in audience. The stage that is only, in its true form and beauty, known by the poor old man who sweeps it after each play.
Your acts anger me because I act too, always so desperately in attempt to convince them that I am normal, for that acceptance that I long for when I am alone. Then you, with all the acceptance I would desire, isolating yourself to be loved more.
Who are you?
You are people. You are the popular girl who decides, in the morning when she wakes, that you will be happy today. You are the young man that touches and gropes your young thighs in the despising eyes of the public to make you feel beautiful; a lie told to you by his gentle grip, as though he needs you, and a lie that you so easily believed, as though he controls you.
who are You?
You are the one whom I would, til' the death, fight so bravely for. But how do I know which YOU to run into battle for? I cannot decide which one is true because all your costumes and make up have been used on me too.
I need to know who you are.
I need to know you so I can show you. I need to know you so I can undo all the fibs
That were force fed to you, at will, by the ones who sensed the fear in you. I need to know you so I can reassure you, and direct you the North Star that will lead you to the Land of Paradise that is you.
I want to know you.
I want to be the other, the sister, the lover. I want to make you conscious of the Divine that is within you so you may one day, after reaching the destination of your senses, run into battle with a blade heated by love to fight for one not true to themselves; and maybe even me.
I have to know you.
My knowledge in the study of your soul will allow my love not to be done by duty but by my legitimate emotions and fondness of you.
You.
The beautiful spirit that sings like a Nightingale at dark. A beautiful spirit that sings for saddened and lonely shadows and dying men that have been consumed by this heart-breaker of a world we live in, a lullaby for those who are torn apart by the fear of nightmares and forced to stay aware; awake.
I think I understand.
I think I understand you because you remind me of myself. A kid, a lonely kid. You've been taken into the arms of the loyal desire to be loved, the desire that never leaves. Like a nagging housewife that is determined to "fix" you.
I know.
Each day you wake up is another scene in a movie, and uneventful movie that nobody feels obligated to notice. Each day you try to fit into the bracket, and each day you fail it dismally.
I.
I anger myself. Forever trying to evoke pleasure in others but I. You are grown from the same root as I. You have shown me in my negative light, my eyes hurt. My eyes.
Who am I?
My obsession with discovering you has led to my own discovery, the discovery of the self-hatred that brews in my gut. The self-hatred that stands tall beside me so I do not conquer it and holds my hand, kindly and comfortingly so I never leave it. And loved ones watch, just waiting for the right moment for it to burn up my oesophagus and spill out of me, and set me free.
But it never will, until I find who I am.
Stage Girl, empty girl. These are the names that you and I have chosen for ourselves Because we don't know who we are. If our lost souls are not found one day, our identities will be forever erased. Our identities will forever fade.
Our memory, not legendary. No thoughts, no sympathy nor respect will bring us back from the nameless dead. Our graves will have labels but no character.
No grass or plant will blossom from them because everything needs love and no true love belonged to us.
We need to know WHO we are.