Those girls made short work of my face,
using their long nails to strip the skin
away clean from the muscles beneath.
They wore me like a mask,
my pretty words dripping from their lips
in platitudes, poetry they read so many times
they began to think they owned it.

Like a dress, I've gone in and out of fashion.
My suffering has a season,
a time to be worn and then packed away.

Oh, girls, you could never be me
because you have never really known me.
That only happens on the day
when you try to take the face off but you can't.

02/20/2017

Posted on 02/20/2017
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