with your upturned nose
so naturally, you were born to be ******.
Your hands so genetically set at a predisposition to
wrap around your own throat.
Whilst your heart yearns and aches for every heartthrob story out there.
You walk around like the world is inside you.
As if you are neither too good to be on top,
but not good enough to uphold it.
You act as if you represent human nature in all of your flaws
instead of admitting to yourself that you have low impulse control.
I noticed you haven't been wearing shoes lately
you pretend to like the way the textures of Earth feel on your skin
but I am you
so I know you're only wishing to cut your feet.
The world looks so small through your telescope eyes,
so far from the ground even though you are standing on it.
Nothing makes you more special than the times you look away,
when the light hits the scar on your forehead.
Of course, you don't know this.
You're too busy thinking of other things,
wrapped inside your mind like a blanket.
This is a reminder to breathe.
To look in the mirror like you love it.
And to let yourself feel something beyond what's fake.