If I were to fight with myself, I wouldn’t win—nor will I lose
My drivers have melted; oil dry
Colors don’t come to me anymore; it’s me who paints myself with them
Am I a clown?
I feel like faux
Why do I do this to myself?
I clothe myself with polyester, with artificial leather
Did I do this to myself?
Yellow is covered with blue—massive layers
Layers, layers, layers
I’m done
Now, what does this make of me?
A story with no plot
A song without a bridge
I don’t know what I want
I don’t know what to do
I don’t know
Maybe I need to scrape off the layers one by one
These are choices but they feel like death sentences
I promised I won’t regret, but could you spare me this bit?
I said I don’t regret, but in reality, it’s what I live in—thoughts
It’s what I devour
They built up like cancer in my bones
The things I hate are what I’m made of
Little girl, please come out
Little girl, please save me