Alice is weak.

Alice is weak and stupid and ugly and (for some reason) she amuses you.
All you poets call her a pet project and write out gorgeous poetry for her, about her, to taunt her(“You inspire me, Alice, so
I’ve penned these pretty lines!”) and Alice hates that she’s never the one
behind the keyboard sending out things of beauty to the world.
Is all the praise supposed to placate her?
“You’re wonderful-I don’t even know you and you’ve touched me!”
Well touch this, Alice growls, cutting into her worthless hide, her mask that’s cracked because
Halloween was so long ago that the aftertaste of candy is just a memory.
Touch this, she laughs, rubbing her blood away and dousing the wounds in hairspray
(“it makes them easier to see”-she giggles) all the while crying that
she’s never enough for people. Alice is a menace to everyone she meets, don’t you see, and she’s accepted that, she has(!),
but you make it just so difficult to stay hidden when everyone knows her name
(and won’t they expect more from her? After all, she’s inspiring). Alice watching people give thanks to
wonderful writers that she hates deep down because they make it a game-“let’s all pick her apart”-and they
always win but she just wants a time-out, someone call the referee, she needs to make it stop.
And Alice is fed up with you telling her how she should be proud-she should
love the fact that people care enough to write about her-but she just wishes they’d
wrap up her tragedy and send it back (she’s loaning out her pain, and you’re getting paid
while she starves-a starving artist in rags and bloody towels) but they’ve decided to all steal
a little piece of her and make it beautiful again (polish it and make it shine for all their eyes) and
Alice wonders, can I still be beautiful? But the sad truth, little girl, is that no, you can’t possibly be anything but
what you are (which is weak and fat and worthless) and Alice wants to know if
you feel this, can you touch this(?), and she’s offering up her bloody wrists
(but all you do is wipe away a little of the crimson with some parchment and call it a masterpiece).