She’s interesting, but in that tortured sort of way.
That pitter-patter teen angst boom-splat dead sort of way.
That sort of way that makes you wonder which is right and which is wrong.
That sort of way that makes you think that song on the radio isn’t so sad,
Because at least it’s fiction. At least it’s a sleeping-sort of dream instead of a waking one.
At least it doesn’t bob its head from left to right to the sound of the drums beating in her ears.
Her arms flail in the air and her lids shut, but she’s still here.
Tortured like eyes seeing lovers quarrel over, and over.
Tortured like ears hearing tears for hours and hours.
Tortured like lips touching the wrong lips again and again.
Do you see her, with flowers in her hair? With a murderous mouth that lies and says she doesn’t care?
And she’s interesting, but in that tortured sort of way.
That pitter-patter teen angst boom-splat dead sort of way.
She is cursed with clairvoyance and a burning love inside,
That looks in the mirror and turns to the dark.
Because sure she knows she’s interesting, sure she knows she’s smart,
But neither one of those things could ever soothe her broken heart.