i tear away at Ivory flesh,
sticky Red is embedding itself in my nails
i'm not good enough for Them,
i'll never be good enough
and it's killing me inside,
my insides twist and curl,
bile rises in my throat at the pain,
They expect too much
and i put on too good a show.

i don't expect Them to see the side effects of Perfect,
i don't expect Them to care if they do,
my job is to be a pretty face,
with a pretty brain
that can say pretty things
and that's all They give a damn about.

Red
Red
Red,
crazy,
it's everywhere,
and that makes me crazy
but i keep my mouth shut
and claw at the Ivory flesh
because it's the only method of sanity,
not that They care.

would they care if Perfect killed me?
if Perfect drove me crazy?
can you go something you probably are?
i don't think so.

i'm drowning in Perfect,
in expectations,
in pressure,
in crazy,
in Red.

13 and going on Perfect,
like always,
because They're not good enough for me,
They'll never be good enough,
i look in a mirror and Perfect smiles back
but crazy undermines it
and Red adorns it
and death plagues it
because i'm probably clawing my way out of 6 feet
or maybe i'm not,
who cares?
not Them.

xoxo,
The0dd0ne

(not that you care, you only care if the words are Perfect)