If you look
inside of me,
my insides aren't
pink and pristine.

They are browned
and dusty and charred.

They are abused from
years of use,
limp from years
of misuse.

My heart doesn't
beat a mile a minute
at the sight of high-heeled shoe
and rooms filled with perfumes
and long dresses.

I don't even think
there's anything in there,
may be just empty space,
may be a vacuum in
cold air.


I don't choose wisely,
don't follow my heart,
just follow what everyone
else says is good-
what might be good.

I'm not made of
roses or spices or
anything nice.

I am ashes
and tears
and cold hard ice.

I sneer when you smile,
all preppy and nice,
amd such-a-nice-girl,
laugh when you fall
flat on your face in
the cafeteria.

I never like what I see
and I never see what you like.
I am just a girl...

I, am just a girl.