When she became a teenager,
There was a sort of heaviness plaguing her.
The wondering and dreaming and thinking about
who she was in reference to everyone else.
She didn't always think like this,
surely didn't when she was young, small, hopeful.
And when she concentrates really hard,
pushes past the drugs and drinks and boys,
she finds the source in
those two girls.
They grew up on her street,
Brown and blonde hair bouncing along, side-by-side.
One was tall and thin and smoked on her front porch at ten at night,
One was short and curvy and smiled like the flower she was.
They weren't in the same grade, didn't have the same friends,
but she knew, she knew, that they were the
extension of each other.
She would often find them curled up,
drugged out and listening to waling music,
or dancing around like maniacs
techno pulsing through the floorboards.
(The way it was meant to be).
And this wondering, these nightmare day-dreams,
come from them, she knows.
Recognition has never been her strong suit,
but she is quite good at poker.
They passed their infamy,
their crazy, hazardous, call-911-i'm-dying
smirks and winks and smiles onto her.
She doesn't want them.
The thing is,
they always had each other.
She noticed this, sitting in her second story bedroom window,
watching the pretty blonde princess crumble,
watching the wild child hold her together.
She will never have that,
and she curses them for it.
They ruined her and then left,
brown and blonde hair bouncing along,
(until they were both gone).