she is a pop song stuck in a teenaged girl’s head, lyrics to your caption. a tune that is so persistent, but one you can’t quite remember.

i wonder who wrote the words to my song; was it me, a hopeless romantic in search of a melody i couldn’t tire of, or all the guys i use to validate my body? was it me, the girl who holds sharp objects to her skin and scars the words into her heart, or the girl who broke it?

i am every pop anthem, the ones you get drunk to, the ones that preach acceptance and self love. i am the ones that girls get ***** to, and the ones that advocate feminism. i am black and pink.

but i am also a sad poem, the kind that you write instead of killing yourself, the kind whose words are itching to break out of your skin, break your skin. i am the poem that hurts your fingers as you put pen to paper, as you bleed your soul out.