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I’m different,
so I must be a loser.

sure.

salutations,

glass mannequin masquerade

27.2.10

if you claim me as your property,

Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go,

and don't even think about taking

my hard-earned money for houses

you don't live in, you can't live in.

you can't live; in

case you thought

otherwise. as if

i'd let you win at

my own game–

but i know how much

you love conquering

my continents in Risk

and beating me to death

at LIFE (isn't that ironic?)

it's all hit-or-miss-or-break,

and it won't be long before

you snap my board in half,

before you snap my neck in

thirds, before you snap your

fingers and tell me what to do,

B4: you sunk my Battleship

and relation-Ship and Submarine,

and sorry for the trouble,

but there's not room on

this tile for the two of us,

so go home without me.

Connect Four of my veins together.

Scrabble onto my pulmonary valve.

tell me your dirty secrets,

and the clean ones, too;

just give me a Clue to

what you really think,

to who you really are,

in which room,

and with what weapon.

Miss Anthrope, with words, in the torture chamber.

you've already drawn me in,

now draw me a line

with your left hand,

with your eyes closed,

without lifting your pencil

off my recycled paper-heart.

now cross that line, okay?

now seal it with a death wish,

and promise me you'll

never say my name again–

this kind of love is Taboo,

banned in toy stores everywhere,

including the ones on your lawn.

now i've spent five nights in a row

waiting for you on your front patio;

the sand in the minute glass falls like

raindrops as i wait for you to come

outside me and pop the bones

of this jigsaw back into Perfection.

if i say that i don't think i'm pretty, i'm looking for attention, and if i say yes, i'm a vain bitch. it's such a double standard in society; we tell girls that they should be confident and feel beautiful all the time, but then we tear down girls who are confident, out of jealousy and hate. i really don't get it.