You are the unbearable sort of thing that I wouldn’t want to wear on my feet, even with boots laced up to the knees, because wearing you would force me to cover my polka-dotted toes,
And anyone who would want to compromise my innocence like that is horribly patterned and dull,
Like the lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate, gathering dust on that shelf in the rain, where the rest of my unwelcome thoughts have found place
The ones that can’t cover my insecurities
Or don’t flatter my figure at all
There’s an obvious scab on my ankle that won’t heal
Embarrassing, really
It came from my unwavering faith in open-toed stilettos
You saw it just the other day
And I blushed as I tried to pull my pant leg over the sore, but you knew (I think)
Oh, the puzzling urge I have to be made over by the brains of your outfits!
So I can open a closet of conversation topics that would suit both of us just fine
I think
I have shed 18 years of ideas in the past two weeks
I starved myself until I could fit into the apparel of your approval
Which I claw through my closets but still cannot find
But I know that somewhere in my brain beneath an empty toilet paper roll or stuck on a dead branch of ideas is a match to your unbearable pattern-
Perhaps if I’d kept my opinions more alphabetized, I would’ve found it sooner
Blast, my scattered brain that can’t seem to produce any fashion but faux pas for you
Logic and emotion were never meant to mix like this- trust me, I know well
Give me a summer to rearrange myself, hmm?
Or will I have no use of you then…
If only I’d started to realize sooner
We’d be peeling oranges and discussing the oldest styles of thought, you and I
Beneath an umbrella in the rain
You wouldn’t be able to see that odd scab on my ankle
Because I would have the other lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate-
I feel that perhaps
you are only unbearable because I wish you complimented me better, that perhaps the reason I’m starving myself of all reason is because I’d like nothing more than to openly say
that I hate you, my lone, little argyle sock
but that is only
because right now, I could never possibly hope to wear you
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
You are the unbearable sort of thing that I wouldn’t want to wear on my feet, even with boots laced up to the knees, because wearing you would force me to cover my polka-dotted toes,
And anyone who would want to compromise my innocence like that is horribly patterned and dull,
Like the lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate, gathering dust on that shelf in the rain, where the rest of my unwelcome thoughts have found place
The ones that can’t cover my insecurities
Or don’t flatter my figure at all
There’s an obvious scab on my ankle that won’t heal
Embarrassing, really
It came from my unwavering faith in open-toed stilettos
You saw it just the other day
And I blushed as I tried to pull my pant leg over the sore, but you knew (I think)
Oh, the puzzling urge I have to be made over by the brains of your outfits!
So I can open a closet of conversation topics that would suit both of us just fine
I think
I have shed 18 years of ideas in the past two weeks
I starved myself until I could fit into the apparel of your approval
Which I claw through my closets but still cannot find
But I know that somewhere in my brain beneath an empty toilet paper roll or stuck on a dead branch of ideas is a match to your unbearable pattern-
Perhaps if I’d kept my opinions more alphabetized, I would’ve found it sooner
Blast, my scattered brain that can’t seem to produce any fashion but faux pas for you
Logic and emotion were never meant to mix like this- trust me, I know well
Give me a summer to rearrange myself, hmm?
Or will I have no use of you then…
If only I’d started to realize sooner
We’d be peeling oranges and discussing the oldest styles of thought, you and I
Beneath an umbrella in the rain
You wouldn’t be able to see that odd scab on my ankle
Because I would have the other lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate-
I feel that perhaps
you are only unbearable because I wish you complimented me better, that perhaps the reason I’m starving myself of all reason is because I’d like nothing more than to openly say
that I hate you, my lone, little argyle sock
but that is only
because right now, I could never possibly hope to wear you
