related to the poem "glitterblack", and done in a similar style, though i like "glitterblack" better, personally. they're about the same thing.

stupid glitter-boy

i’ve never even seen the color

of your eyes (you bastard. if i

ever did, i’d scribble them down

here and make fun of those looks i

could swear you give me all the time.

to make myself feel better about the nagging

suspicion that you just. don’t. care. about me

at all...)

i’m too busy staring at you and pretending to

stare at the stage where that Ramones rip-off

band is playing and the lights are blinking

blinking blinking and the people i came with

disappear and get down and funky in some

dark place farther into the building—away from

or closer to the noise.

it doesn’t bother me much because i expected her

to drag her emo boy-toy along for the night,

to take that candy necklace of his between her teeth

and so. s. l. o. w. l. y. bite pieces of it off.

(he and i weren’t even introduced—none of you will

ever know my name)

but it’s okay, i guess you could say i didn’t even like them

much, and they didn’t even like me much.

i don’t mind standing alone in a crowd of friends and fuckbuddies

(wannabe relationships, backstabbers, friends-forever, i-think-i’m-

in-love-with-SOMEBODYs)

i’m good at being by myself.

everything about me is quiet and creepy, the way my hair falls

in front of my eyes so that no one can accidentally look into them

and see e. x. a. c. t. l. y. what i’m thinking.

(i used to think that people could see inside my head when they sat

behind me, that my skin and hair and skull would become transparent

and people would read my thoughts and think me dirty—

a horrible little eight-year-old girl.)

but that’s neither here nor there really.

blink. blink. blink.

scream. scream. scream.

major guitar riff right now.

your basic highschool rock fest,

and i’m standing right in front of the stage,

right next to the speakers

and nobody nobody moves nobody moves

but you keep turning. around.

and looking. right at me.

i can’t stand it

(i can’t stand you)

i hate it

(i hate how you can make me feel

like less)

you look at me (and run your hands down her waist)

blink. blink.

what else can i say?

(stupid glitter-boy asshole,

sex-bucket,

sleep-around,

nympho-- fucking that pretty girl

with the black shiny pigtails and the plaid skirt

and the silver studded belt that catches the bad

lighting from the techies in the back back back

of the room—and nobody moves nobody nobody moves--

you can’t be any better than that beautiful STD you

touch like you own--)

you’re the trashtown king,

and i’m just this punk kid

(i’m just this punk kid)