I do not know the feeling of popularity,
nor the feeling of being hated by all.

I tie my shoes a bit tighter,
in hope that,
it’ll cut off circulation to my feet.

That my limbs will become numb,
and instead of falling in love,
I’ll fall out of a 40 story window.

Long nights,
Party lights,
Way to get it started.

Blurred sight,
Drinks taste alright,
Away the car parted.

Deer in the headlights,
Swerve to the right,
Many trees uncharted.

Prayers recite,
Skull and dashboard unite,
There his soul departed.

I enjoy pointing my toes,
Pushing my hands into my thighs,
And jumping into a spot in the lake,
Where it is seemingly bottomless.

It often feels like the past.
The compression on my cranium is depression.
The depletion of air in my lungs is anxiety.
The vacant water that grasps me are my thoughts.

Floating to the top,
Yearning for my hands to create a whirlpool overhead,
Whose vortex could take me to the past,
To the flaws, tween stages, and grades that didn’t matter.

To inform past me,
That she’ll be okay.
That’d be me,
Pleading to know.

But in this moment,
I seem to be the girl that just,
Involuntarily drowns,
In her own lake of metaphors and insecurities.

Beware: Do not fall in Love with an artist.

An artist is definitely the most dangerous to fall into a relationship with.
You won’t even know you’re the exact facsimile of their work.

They will tear your heart to bits,
more than likely to generate a new showpiece.

They will watch your irises go from fields in bloom to dull skies,
and your black pupils go from metallic to charcoal.

They will be able to stroke your hair softer than a paintbrush,
and watch your little detail emerge from something pallid.

They will be able to memorize the structure of your face,
then round your cheeks and chisel your dimples into rock.

They will sing lightly the melody you’ve made,
as they cling to your torso as if a life source.

Do you see the danger?
For the love of god, beware.