The Fake Girl

The fake girl

Smiles at everyone,

And attracts strange stares,

As a reward for her boisterous antics.

The fake girl

Laughs at stupid jokes,

And clumsily carves a happy face,

Into the tender skin on her wrists.

The fake girl

Is the clown that no one laughs with:

Just at.

The fake girl

Doesn't mind being a source of entertainment.

She'll gladly sell her soul,

To keep everyone happy.

She dances in dizzy circles,

And trips over her own feet.

She grins with hollow eyes,

And wishes that she knew why,

She wanted so badly to die.

The fake girl

Is a mask.

Something cheaply made:

An artificial flavor,

That can never truly substitute for sugar.

She is the rug that you throw on the floor,

To hide the dust and stains beneath.

The fake girl

Is about to fall to pieces.

Inside, the mutant screams.

It claws at the insides of pretty plastic flesh,

And tears at the corners of the fake smile.

It puts its claws through the faux sparkly eyes,

And rips out through the brain.

Foolish creature:

It wore the mask too long.

Never will this androgynous, shapeless, heartless monster

Be accepted.

If it wanted to be seen,

It should have never hidden in the first place.

A life of real pain,

Is better than a make-believe existence.

The fake girl

Isn't so fake anymore.

She may not be much,

But she's the only thing left.

She's all you ever wanted anyway.

Isn't she.

(Note: the lack of a question mark at the end is intentional. It isn't a question: it's a statement.)