The Brooding Goth Girl

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She's got shoulders for days, back exposed, boobs you name it
Says you body shame if you ever try to tame it
She's the only one sitting with her legs spread
Mouth gaping open at the table, as if waiting to get fed
But the conversation's lingering, dialogue is dead
Panting up the metaphorical mountain, you know ballet shoes ain't got tread
Include her, in return you get that open shoulder raised awk half smile
Don't say anything at all, she's stuck in dungeons for a while.
A whirlwind of fears spin as she defies gravity
Instability disguised by the aesthetic of her Instagram feed
An outsider, we call her
Guilt inflicts us as we can't help but get bothered
The flip of her used to be blonde hair hides the hot mess
Of a girl too deep in distress to redress
The more I spend time with her, I know her less and less
We doubt she even knows herself
Passing by mirrors and windows she stops to glance
At the girl in her reflection, on the off chance
That maybe this time she'd see who she was behind the prance, the dance
The dance she performs to fool us
The dance she dances to fool herself.





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