youre a city girl raised on

fantasy-realities of ivy leagues and

imminent success your 
only scars are pimple scars

remainders of a childhood
of 
vaguesuccesses.

exceptional, they call you, who were

bred and groomed for this title

talent is a spectre that haunts

you and your sibling and every

otherchild

born into that grey area between

happy and sad.

you have the world beneath your

dainty soft feet but its never

enough to bring you to the summit of

the desires (expectations) that
push down on you like

a suffocating cloud that waters your eyes
   and 
chokes your lungs. youre afraid to leap

up (out of sight out of mind out of the safe cradle
of a mothers wisdom and a fathers love and

the familiarity of being a tightly coiled rope ready to snap)

and into a sky where suddenly that weight is

lifted and you feel light

       (the weight is comfortable, it keeps you grounded)

                                    and perhaps
that you were moulded with

this constant belief that you [are/must be] the best is

the __ (only/best) reason to stop yourself.

when others have problems that seem so

much grander and you in your protective bubble

that even a city cannot permeate (you ignore the sight of beggars

or thieves or poverty and avert your eyes

from anything that contradicts

the perceptions that you have, it doesnt
matter if youre in a city

plagued by pain and exploitation

as long as you can live in your (steel tinted) dreams)

you wish that you had that claim to fame (isnt it sad that

were so desperate for relevance we
selfishly wish for suffering, trading your own

trivial vices).

but you [dont understand/cant understand/will never understand]

no matter how many times you
sympathise and complain and romanticise.

youre just a pimple-scarred city girl carrying

a world of ideals and expectations on

                   your shoulders.