she is make-believe.
plastic skin stretched across styrofoam bones,
smile cheaply made, high in demand,
sold at a trendy chain store near you.
we knew it when we saw
flowers growing through her instead of around,
when she pushed out words like rotting things
from her throat,
and we all left her to her own devices,
because everyone knows
you can't help an imaginary girl.
(here's a hint:
when she hollows out her eyes
and presses her smiles flat
to make room for more
lip gloss, that's when you know
you've lost her).
she pretends she's stuffed with sunshine,
but we can all see the shadows
etched into her eyes,
the peeling-off scotch tape
covering the cracks in her skin.
it's like she's on the verge of drifting
apart whenever the wind
surges through her,
like she's scared to let go.
so she'll scoop up the stars
and burn them into her skin
because we all told her
to shine,
because we all told her
pain is beauty,
because she doesn't want
to disappear.
but she can't help it, can she?
after all,
the art of vanishing
comes naturally to her.
after all,
she is make-believe.