"I can't be like her," she managed to choke
past the sobs stuck in her throat.
"I'm never going to be
that skinny, with perfect skin,
and I'm never going to fit in
size five jeans. I don't understand
why they'd do this to me! I don't
understand..." the rest of her words
faded into the pillow, my hand
rubbing small circles on her shoulder,
longing to fold her into my arms and
then proceed to blow things up.
The first thing I could think of to say was, "Shitty people don't need reasons to do shitty things. They're just mean all over the place."
I'm obviously not very good at comforting people...
(pardon my French, but I really can't think of any synonyms for "shitty" at the moment.)
I like writing poetry. Not all of it is going to be a historical epic or an ode to something. These are like little glimpses of the subway in my mind; my train of thought isn't always artsy or symbolic or deep or meaningful, but I like to think that art takes ordinary things and makes people see a sort of beauty in them. So, look around- I've been doing this for a while. Enjoy ♥
1 comment:
love. the last line is absolutely golden.
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