I stand bejeweled, with feathers in my hair,
A pretty girl, in a pretty world.
But I’m not pretty enough.
I’m the ghost by the door, hiding in the walls,
The glass ornament on the mantel,
The ornate dish, a holder for what they truly want.
I bury my head beneath the sands.
I do it as best I can.
But I’m not perfect enough.
So I cower under embellished fabrics.
My voice stays as silent as if it did not exist.
The colors of the world are seeping away.
The ocean, the sky have turned grey.
I’m on an endless highway to nowhere.
No escape- the road signs of my mind blaring.
Be better. Be better.
If I’m perfect maybe I can disappear.
Maybe my opinions will fade altogether.
Maybe one day I’ll be part of the walls.
I exist to not exist.
And as long as the words of those around me remain-
Well-
It’s too late anyway.
This pretty, antique, baroque artifact
Will stay golden.
And empty.