i spend all of my valentine's
days snorting those icky hearts that
taste mostly like chalk and food coloring,
all crushed up into a powder so they're easier
to inhale, because i need a heart or two or six to
keep me alive, and because you have stolen mine.
(like the fucking kleptomaniac that you are.)
sometimes, when i'm high on
"be mine" or "call me"
i like to pretend that i actually am
alive, and not this grotesque expanse of
scarred girl-flesh that is rotting in
the corner of your closet- forgotten kind of
like the condoms you "forgot" to buy,
kind of like when i told you "no" and you
raped me anyways and how i have triedtriedtried,
and am still trying to forget that night.
other times, when i'm high enough to
hear the angels screaming my name,
i pretend that you still love me back.
you always said that i was just a little girl
stuck in her own fairytale world.
you also always said that i looked
so fucking hot all dressed up in my
plastic heels and glitter.
now, i'm cutting lines and snorting
pale pinks and purples, feeling all colorful and
almost alive. and i'm waiting, with sticky mascara tears
eroding away the layers of blush on my cheeks,
waiting for you to come and take me away like
the prince you promised to be. waiting, in my
plastic jewelry and sparkly heels-
and nothing else.