That Girl Was a Teenage Catastrophe
001
You see that pitiful soul stooped and weighed heavily with the evils of her mind? You see that girl, so low, dark and desolate, lifeless as the plastic mannequin that she envies of, with its flawless, delicate physique and null and void demeanor to match? You see that girl that weeps herself to sleep at night, in the vast, lonely darkness of her bedroom, daring to expose herself to the turmoil and angst, fearing to be chided by misunderstanding, harsh, scrutinizing peers otherwise; the girl forgotten like ebbing mist; the girl that dares not raise her eyes above the blankness of the lunchroom table while average life swarms around her, so close and buzzing, and yet so far away, as if coming through a lengthy tunnel that was sucking her in and pounding her brain; the girl with tell-tale faded scars bruising her, inside and out.
Do not point. Do not scorn.
You see an attention-seeker, a loser, a person that one would be under no obligation to muse over.
I see a hapless human being that understands too much, who is inflicted with too much pain, whose face is a mask, an abated container of bleak despair. I see a mask that is filled with holes and that betrays her true demeanor.
You call her desperate and selfish to dispose of the one thing she truly has ever had possession of; her life.
I call her broken.
This girl's soul is alight with ghosting memories that incinerate and scorch like a flaming hell in her heart. And she feels it; you can be sure she feels it, smoking out her pours, graying and wearing away her bearing, her capability to blink away the tears and blind the pain to numbness that was easier to withstand and harder to retain.
She's been plowed through endless dissection, a sapling torn in a raging tornado; a vagabond of reality seeking to lope away and mend the lacerations, but with nowhere to turn. A girl assailed unpredictably and suddenly with words as sharp as spears and daggers that tear into her flesh and wound her. This is a girl who once had friends, but she came to learn that she could never depend on them while in suffer. This is the girl who took her whole life to eventually discover that her own mind's the antagonist.
That girl I know so well; that girl I know too well.
That girl was me.
Do not point. Do not scorn.
You see an attention-seeker, a loser, a person that one would be under no obligation to muse over.
I see a hapless human being that understands too much, who is inflicted with too much pain, whose face is a mask, an abated container of bleak despair. I see a mask that is filled with holes and that betrays her true demeanor.
You call her desperate and selfish to dispose of the one thing she truly has ever had possession of; her life.
I call her broken.
This girl's soul is alight with ghosting memories that incinerate and scorch like a flaming hell in her heart. And she feels it; you can be sure she feels it, smoking out her pours, graying and wearing away her bearing, her capability to blink away the tears and blind the pain to numbness that was easier to withstand and harder to retain.
She's been plowed through endless dissection, a sapling torn in a raging tornado; a vagabond of reality seeking to lope away and mend the lacerations, but with nowhere to turn. A girl assailed unpredictably and suddenly with words as sharp as spears and daggers that tear into her flesh and wound her. This is a girl who once had friends, but she came to learn that she could never depend on them while in suffer. This is the girl who took her whole life to eventually discover that her own mind's the antagonist.
That girl I know so well; that girl I know too well.
That girl was me.