this girl has grown out of herself

this girl is a breath looking for a home on inviting lips

this girl is an ink stain waiting to happen on your paper

this girl is an anonymous nonsensical sticky note on your math book (and your planner, and your composition book, and your folder, and your art class sketchbook, and your chorus folder...)

this girl is bored, and can't remember how to "give a damn about the weather" ("but it never gave a damn about me")

this girl would dye her hair black if it were drastic and would make a difference (HAHAHA.)

this girl has trouble working up the motivation to do her homework until about 10-11 at night, every night

this girl is in love with what she can't have

but sometimes confuses that void for the thick feeling of "want" that fills up the space

this girl is grasping at her final connections, because she's afraid she'll lose herself again

like she did when she was a little girl

this girl has grown out of herself.

Everything about the shell I've shed makes me sick inside.

Everything about the blob of nothing I am now is pale and personality-less and I'm not sure that I like it, but at this point I'm not sure I like or dislike anything anymore.

--

I always said I was born to create.

This soul was not built to do battle with the world

and I am so tired of fighting the ghosts of other people's demons.

I want to let everyone go