She’s got cat-scratch wrists and
faux tears in her eyes.
Love me, her wrist says,
all glittersores and innocence.
Pretty girls feel pain, too.
Just because she’s glamorous doesn’t mean
she doesn’t need the reassurance.

One night stands don’t mean she’s really a whore;
he didn’t make her feel
beautiful,
precious,
wanted,
perfect,
loved.

(They all tasted like apathy and lust on her tongue.)

So what if she honestly is stunning?
It sure as hell doesn’t make her happy.

She’ll never see salvation in the shape of a boy-
it’s too chauvinistic and overrated for her taste.
‘but’, she thinks, looking at her wrist,
‘if love can’t save me,
what the fuck will?’