You leaned over me, your breath like heavy fog on the lake, and I could smell fear but I was so confused; I was 5000 feet underwater and my house of cards was swaying. Shouldn't I be the prey that's surrounded by crop circles? I can still feel the guilt gnawing away at the transparent barrier between filth and innocence when I realized the invitation with my name on it was addressed from me to you, and I'm pinned with my arms wide open, welcoming your poisonous hands and addicting whispers to scrape my layers away the expose the truth behind these scars and bullet holes. I was ordered behind these bars to sculpt a new girl who didn't pretend to like pop music and nail polish, but it was harder to be myself and dig up old records and alibis then to find fake friends with fake tans and boyfriends who tossed them around like rag dolls. We looked like them, though, and gluing on eyelashes is simpler than embracing my love for big words and literary tools everyone in class groans over. I'm still getting used to not being the same as everyone else and solving each flaw in my life so I can re-sculpt it into a falling star for you to wish on when we're sleeping and not *******, because that's when we really need the love of our past.