I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Rainbows adorning my fingers and wrists and neck, I waltz to school like the winner of America’s Next Top Model. The girl everyone greets, knows, you’re dying to meet me, I’m the hot girl in your tiny world like the center of the school and on my way to the bathroom you turn your heads. I am the eye catcher, the giver of whiplash and starry eyes and broken hearts. And I look back into the eyes of my prey- the teenage boy, and I wish at this moment I could become the tiger I look. I wish I could sink my long gruesome claws into your heart and whisper into your ear before I pull them back out again. I wish I could return to you what you have given to me. This stress of reject and hate, this longing to be accepted , I wish I could worsen your worst fears and prolong your regrets. I wish there was something I could do to you to make you hate yourself as much as I hated me.
I look at your faces and I want to scream and yell into your sorry expressions of lust until you can see that I am not yours, and never will be. You are not my love and you do not love me. Please just go away, please just leave me alone.
