Picture On My Wall
There’s an invitation to a night out on my phone
And I don’t want to go but I know that I should
Because I’m eighteen now and it’s pretty much expected and while I like a drink (which is an understatement) I don’t like overcrowded places or computer made music always played in those places
And I’ve said no too many times already, so I just ignore it, wait for the confrontation.
Like I have done with the party invitation on my face book page, which is from a girl I don’t really know and it’s very sweet, and it’s a Disney party so there will be people on my wavelength, but how to fashion a suitable tinkerbell costume is a worry.
I may be eighteen but I’d rather sit in a pub than a club, my room than the park, my grans garden than the bus station
I’ve never been kissed and I feel like I’m missing out, but I don’t let it show because then I’d have to tell them, and it’s pretty shameful, so I make up a boy, on holiday two years ago.
I sit with my best friend pouring over the latest issue of Gay Times, drooling over Darren Criss and Darren Hayes and laughing about Glee, one of the few things we agree on, and I am a gay stereotype but I’m not gay.
My mother called me a hag.
My mother terrifies me but I act like she’s my best friend, because who admits that their mother scares them shitless?
I envy people who know who they are, while I hide behind sex jokes, acting like I’m experienced and acting like I don’t care.
He always sees right through me.
He is a giant, ten feet tall but not really, and when he smiles at me I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach in the best way, but then he talks about his girlfriend and I feel awful again and this is why I try to be Courtney Love, because she would have punched a boy for making her feel like that.
I have a picture of Courtney on my wall, she’s next to Kurt which may not be the best idea, but they’re two of my favourite people. When I feel very lonely I have conversations with the pictures on my wall. Angel keeps me safe, Emilie keeps me crazy, and Kurt, Courtney and Wayne keep me angry. Edward says nothing. I don’t know why he’s still there and neither does he. I have no idea what I used to stick it up but it won’t move.
I have an invitation to a night out on my phone and I don’t think I’ll go, because I have a cold and I’m still mad at her, but one day soon I’ll say yes and have a conversation with someone who isn’t a picture on my wall, or a ten foot x-ray machine.
I call that progress.
And I don’t want to go but I know that I should
Because I’m eighteen now and it’s pretty much expected and while I like a drink (which is an understatement) I don’t like overcrowded places or computer made music always played in those places
And I’ve said no too many times already, so I just ignore it, wait for the confrontation.
Like I have done with the party invitation on my face book page, which is from a girl I don’t really know and it’s very sweet, and it’s a Disney party so there will be people on my wavelength, but how to fashion a suitable tinkerbell costume is a worry.
I may be eighteen but I’d rather sit in a pub than a club, my room than the park, my grans garden than the bus station
I’ve never been kissed and I feel like I’m missing out, but I don’t let it show because then I’d have to tell them, and it’s pretty shameful, so I make up a boy, on holiday two years ago.
I sit with my best friend pouring over the latest issue of Gay Times, drooling over Darren Criss and Darren Hayes and laughing about Glee, one of the few things we agree on, and I am a gay stereotype but I’m not gay.
My mother called me a hag.
My mother terrifies me but I act like she’s my best friend, because who admits that their mother scares them shitless?
I envy people who know who they are, while I hide behind sex jokes, acting like I’m experienced and acting like I don’t care.
He always sees right through me.
He is a giant, ten feet tall but not really, and when he smiles at me I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach in the best way, but then he talks about his girlfriend and I feel awful again and this is why I try to be Courtney Love, because she would have punched a boy for making her feel like that.
I have a picture of Courtney on my wall, she’s next to Kurt which may not be the best idea, but they’re two of my favourite people. When I feel very lonely I have conversations with the pictures on my wall. Angel keeps me safe, Emilie keeps me crazy, and Kurt, Courtney and Wayne keep me angry. Edward says nothing. I don’t know why he’s still there and neither does he. I have no idea what I used to stick it up but it won’t move.
I have an invitation to a night out on my phone and I don’t think I’ll go, because I have a cold and I’m still mad at her, but one day soon I’ll say yes and have a conversation with someone who isn’t a picture on my wall, or a ten foot x-ray machine.
I call that progress.