poem: boring afternoon depression

some questions for today:
when did my image
consume my soul?
how the fuck did i
end up the ‘good girl’?

can we return to the before—when he
was still a mystery, when i
did not make hell into a casual
routine; crying in your room alone
to my chemical romance is so seventeen;
you are an adult, you have
no hobbies, you have
no life.

why the fuck would a boy
be attracted to a girl who learns foreign grammar
for fun? why did I expect
that hanging onto the aesthetic side
of fandom would give me preference—
why were the black skinny jeans
just symbolic and not
the grand highlight of my teenage trope?

because, sweetheart, you are poor
you are paying the bills
for your mother.
you are responsible,
classism breeds elitism,
elitism breeds

(i am painting my nails black in my head.)

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