Me

I want to stop being me and I want to start being you. I want to be different, and unique, and you don’t give a shit about anything and so maybe you’re the best person I could be.

So. I burn my old clothes, start wearing hoodies and baggy trousers; sometimes steal my brother’s clothes. When I bother to wear make up, it’s black and over-exaggerated and people tell me I look like a panda, but it’s just something that I can sneer at them over, because at least it’s not a fucking mask now. I can’t sing the way you do, so I take up writing, and once or twice you pause and look over my shoulder and just read what I’ve written. You never say anything, and so I copy you and make sure I don’t say anything when I stop and listen to you sing.

And the days go by and now I’m something that’s not you and not me, but it doesn’t really matter because I just patch up the holes with sellotape and safety pins and tell myself at least it’s better than I was.