nobody likes pretty anymore,
they want the dirt and the grime,
they don’t want anything to rhyme,
they want bodies washed up on the shore.
all they ever want to see are bruises,
people put to death with stones,
cars running over orange highway cones,
the sadness of the long lost muses.
they want blood and gore and death,
they want crosses and flowers beside the road,
if you gave them pretty they’d implode,
because they exhale beauty with every breath.
that’s probably why they like me so much,
because I wear dead things as a cloak,
but it’s faux fur and it’s making me choke,
making my skin burn with every touch.
but they love that ****, they eat it for breakfast,
they use my battle wounds to decorate,
all they seem to do is hate,
my dying body is their aesthetic.
they’re the opposite of a welcoming committee,
they only want you if you’re broken,
they use you as “my friend is depressed!” token,
but all you wanted was to feel pretty