If the bottom does fall out then so be it, fuckit – this is a crux and the only way is literally skyward and up
She doesn’t get poetry, not one bit
And she sure as shit-outta-luck doesn’t get Art
Who the fuck does?
But what she does get, or at least did get, was her… her and herself
The charm, the caring nature, the obvious prettiness that lingered large once-upon-a-time, and the care
Oh, yes… I mentioned that, but she did care
She cared for her unmatched happiness and the unmatched happiness of others in equal measure
She doesn’t want to be glued to a bed and feeling all alone, even if this has in fact been her merry-go-round existence
Doesn’t want to be the rather frustratingly stereotypical case of a mental health problem on hot-wheels
It is hard, and, heck, it may well always have to be that way
She doesn’t get that either, though…
Why her, and why with all of this agonising bitterness!?
These crazy, mind-bending, crucifying and unjustly what-if’s… if only she had a rewind button and… go again!!
She always figured that she knew best
She really, truly did
Is she still imbalanced, or is this it – is this how it was bound to be?
What gives, though?
Sweat-ridden, shrinking, sinking violet with only loneliness for an uncomfortable kind of cradled best-friend
Fill her to the broken down brim with low-dosage Xanax pills and untalented sleeping tablets… and a need for nocturnal noise… just do it now, crush her empty wings, pretty ghastly please
And hope, no… pray for a way out from under beneath it all, because she has been doing that for going on most of her jaded being
Her dreams were a thing of monstrous and decidedly, invitingly misshapen beauty
And, hopefully, the truth holds a place for her at the table of escapism, the inprisonment loses hold of its hopeless over-entitlement