A Diary Entry - (very confessional poetry)
She is a thousand times prettier than I will ever be
but she is dull. Not extraordinary.
She kisses slimy boys and
she’s always shit-faced
and taking flattering photos.
I don’t trust anyone who always looks good in photos.
She doesn’t read books or try to write them.
And I guess we can’t all be literature junkies,
but there’s nothing to redeem her.
She doesn’t paint pictures or make music
or even bother watching films besides blockbusters.
Whatever, whatever, I’m no better than her, god,
she’s the most beautiful girl anyone has ever seen.
And I do not like her because I cannot help loving her.
My body is really bad at this.
I am reacting to the news of rejection in segments,
first the numbness in my hands and then my heart and then anger, fire.
She is thinner than me.
She’s so pretty, god, I am burning to the ground.
You know, rejection tastes like cigarettes.
I’ve decided that god is right and sex is sinful,
but only if you’re the person not having any.
I’ve decided a lot of things, most of which are probably wrong.
Looks don’t mean anything,
except for when you are the ugly quiet girl who looks crazy and can’t stop writing.
Legally I am not yet old enough to decide on big things anyway.
God, she’s so pretty and I bet she is great at talking.
I bet she looks good naked.
I bet she never starts sobbing during normal conversations
and she loves the beach and her parents and god.
I’m never saying anything important.
I can’t decide if I want to die or diet.
The first nerdy girl in history to fall for pretty boys
probably hurt just as bad as I do -
probably worse without centuries of art and poetry and movies and songs and journal entries and novels and stories about the same thing
to fall back on.
I feel like the first one though.
She is so beautiful
and I am hiding in my shapeless dress, ashamed and afraid.
I have come here every day for four years,
only to build a reputation as the crazy one
but I am pitifully normal.
Trains are always running late.
I have bruises in the shapes of finger prints of men who’ve never touched me,
only pulled the trigger,
only pushed the murder instinct forward.
Does anyone know why this happens?
Boys and girls at eighteen undressing in empty classrooms,
lighters and cell phones falling from flattened pockets.
I’ve never understood any of it.
You could walk the whole length of the world and probably find a million girls just like me,
but for the most part I am sitting alone feeling like the first of a very strange species.
You know, I thought i could beat it out of me
but there is only so much that can be done.
Some girls are just strange by nature.
She is prettier than me, but I must learn:
Life is to be a losing streak against the prettier girls
with clear skin and round eyes and pouty lips.
I can’t ask questions anymore.
I don’t want to think about it.
I didn’t ask to be born,
I just sort of landed here and learned a few skills to make it bearable -
reading and writing and kitting and getting in fistfights with a god who I guess kinda forgot about me.
It is a very long road and my feet are already blistering.
Hell is a pretty idea.
They’re waiting for me.