why do i try and live,
if no one wants me here?

What's coming will come,
We will face it when it comes.
2/6/2019

You found
a safe place
in me.

A young man from Spain
Fell in a cold dark drain
When asked, “Are you Mad?”
Said, “No, I’m insane.”
This young man from Spain
From the fall in considerable pain
Attracted a large queue
But him none did rescue.
In his fall he saw no gain
This injured guy from Spain
He exclaimed “Oh, what surprise,
I’m showered with only advice!”
Many suspected his brain
Asked if he was or wasn’t in pain
It really was suspect which side was sane
The ones gathered or the man from Spain!
“How funny” said the men and women
“Surely your eyes were not open”
Some said, “It’s simple and plain,
The fellow is plain insane.”
They said, “You should have been more alert
More cautious and certainly more smart
They all agreed the men and women
He should not have been in the drain.
The unfortunate man from Spain
Wondered what’s the bargain?
Though pain made him blue
Why was nobody coming to his rescue?
They left the poor man to his fate
Expressing anguish and regret
We never knew which side was insane
The crowd that gathered or the man from Spain!

You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.

The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?

What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?

What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.