I’m standing on my sunshine burn of a pedestal,
look down at me and know exactly why I’m here,
since I’m just a snowflake of a girl with no inner self.

Don’t sound sarcastic now, we don’t want them to
think that you actually do have thoughts, and hopes.
Don’t want them to think you actually have dreams.

Oh no, is this what it feels to be famous? Everyone
staring, nobody caring, just you and those italicised
voices haunting your shredded mind.

They all know who you are who you are because
of one related man. They all know who you are
because you could never be something else.

So it front of the mascara stained mirrors
you’ll practice your fake smiles and other
various phoney facial expressions.

That smiles not all too convincing, dear. Try
not to have tears in your eyes and shadows
in your head, following you everywhere.

So I stand there on my pedestal, stuck on the
forever curse of being me alone with those
fatal italicised voices whispering in my ear.

Help?