This dress and this look, a look in which I feel beautiful and delicate and romantic, will accompany me to my end of year ball. I will finally wear something in front of my school peers that expresses the person I am (or at least want to be). I will look different and I will love it.
*~the mirror never lies, the mirror never lies. She saw the truth and then obliterated it. And what was left, the broken pieces reflecting illusions of the soul~*
Yet I don't want to wear this dress to the alternative/rock/goth club. In front of people who wear these clothes and more. Because I will look completely different to how I normally look. I usually wear black petticoats, slut look, with ripped fishnets of all colours and knee high boots. My makeup is the same as I describe above. Yet I look a completely different person, I like that person and I love that look, but in this dress will I look like I'm trying to be something I'm not? That's not the attention I want. But I have so many people inside me. I have my goth side, my slut trash side, my flared jeans and retro top look. But what I miss is the fucking confidence to carry them off. I envy those people with the confidence to wear what they like, express themselves differently, re-invent themselves, fuck the mainstream (and that doesn't mean trendies, that means the alternatives who have their own oppressive style rules).
I see an image of the person I want to be and I have so many ideas. When I go to uni am I gonna be trashy and walk around with a pink plastic kiddie backpack, or am I gonna wander round in black velvet. I could do both, but will I say fuck it and get some confidence.
*~and she stands on the bridge and she throws the tatters of herself into the murky depths, and the tears that follow don't purify, don't cleanse. And she wonders what will plummet next. 'I love you no matter, I love you' and the words haunt her, and she wishes it were the mirror~~*
She prayed, she got down on her knees and prayed so hard that night. she implored God, the gods, the goddess, the angels and all the saints to help her. To send her salvation.
The door knob turned, a whisper, not a delicate whisper, a rasp. 'Honey, are you asleep?'
She knelt silently, and prayed harder.
The door opened, a slither of false light. A rabbit caught in the headlights.
'Now baby, what's the matter?' the door gently closing, darkness, hidden in the shadows.
'Now baby what you praying for, come and get tucked in'
Silence except the shuffling of bed sheets. 'That's right, curl up here with me, safe and warm'.
A headlight passing by, shadows moving on the wall, secrets revealed in illumination. the monster in the room, hiding in the darkness.
Eventual sleep and no salvation. Dreams of an angel, white wings to sweep away the pain, fly to heaven.
God listens. God loves you. Jesus Saves.
Morning and pure safe daylight. God answered. And down came the angel. The angel in a black cloak. A bag packed full of answers, a road open and long.
And by nightfall the answer came. The distance travelled got her no further away. The fallen broken angel sleeps in the damp grass. And the pain seeps out, the hurt flows away. Drained and pale.
~~I asked God to send an angel. If he did she was fallen~~~
Pretty on the Inside/Pretty On the Outside
Not that she was hideous to look at; people often said that she was pretty. But to someone who didn't even believe the beauty inside her these comments were futile.
Occasionally she thought she looked physically attractive, but what these admiriers saw wasn't the real her. They saw a mask, and only she knew what the mask concealed.
She *could* be pretty.
But that tear stained face that stared back at her from the mirror was the only external sign of her hurt. And for that reason she learnt to hate that face and all the ugliness it was and contained.
Then someone entered her life and showed that she wasn't all ugliness and darkness. He showed her that that face could be loved. That face *was* capable of love. But how could she love someone else when she couln't even love herself?
And how would she ever believe that someone loved her when she hated herself so?
She did. She loved
Since that person came into her life the reflection hasn't changed, but the person looking into the mirror has begun to change.
And i feel helpless. i have my metaphor hands bound behind my back. But was it me who tied them there? i'm just watching, seemingly full of apathy.
i knew something was wrong. i listened. But i really thought, really believed, that i would be told the extent of it. i'm a person to trust, i'm a person full of similar experiences. i should have noticed, i shouldn't have just seen the tip of the iceberg. i have empathy. i should've been able to tell.
i tried to save. Tried to rescue.
They all blame me regardless. If only i wasn't around so much, if only there'd been more space, or less space...either way it was me. But i was always there. i watched insanity, illness, and death. i watched the depression. i let myself have my own. sink. And maybe it was me that gave it away. Did i burn so bright i blackened everything else? Or was it already tarnished?
It doesn't matter. It's over. It's gone. I still feel it though. It surrounds me. I breath it in and it's in me again. At night when it's black i feel the cheek and the delicate kisses. But it's gone. Of course it's not real. Maybe it never was. Those desperate clutches. i was one. i was whole. But maybe i was the hole. The empty space, the nothingness. Nothing can fill something. Especially when it's dead.
