She was only a child, the summer of '15
she had the world on a string, her heart
so enclosed in a boys hands, she could never
touch it.
She had dreams, flailing around at the seams,
when it was time to follow a new endeavor
her string seemed to tear, along the middle.

She had insecurities, tall enough to
reach out and choke her dead.
She had no idea,
her heart would have scurried at the first
sight of lust,
and forget the first
one she had.

She had insecurities, enough to crack her
porcelain skin.
She showed them off, like a new
depressing outfit, like a filthy rag.
But when she did, you told her,
"You're a *****".

She had insecurities, enough to **** you off.
Luckily, enough to **** her off too.

My insecurities aren't something
to determine my charisma by,
try again.