Maybe if i’d been less stupid
deluded to the fact
that i’m that the girl so many knew
the broke shell no longer the same but still hell.
And now wordwormed guys poke out to tell me how,
they liked me when self harm was the clothes I wore.
How anxiety the purfumed smell of fear, looked good on me.
How my own mental issues made me seem stuck up.
When actually i gave every fuck.
Just to try hide my face.
In a mask of make up.
In neon hair.In hot pants and a corset.
To scare off anyone who would come near.

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