Keith Urban, soft lighting and a romance novel
are what make a girl
Going to movies &&smoking on street corners
head held high, hair whipping into my face is what I am now
A feet on the dashboard, swearing for no reason, piccking my nails to death, listening to shitty country music kind of tragedy
Respect It, Love It, Own It.
I've always been this carwreck
it's just worse when I feel the need to slip into the "scene"
I say "scene" like it's a dirty word
Under my breath, in whispers to best friends
like it's an incredible secret
I sit in the passenger seat of my favorite
dirty little secrets pickup truck,
singing along to the radio.
It's who I am now.
Some fucked up "scene" Barbie doll
sewn together with fishing wire.
I'm a line of sins a mile long.
Picking me apart is my friend's favorite hobby.
"Find out what makes her tick!" they all scream as they dive for my chest cavity scapel in hand.
They don't know what my life is liek when I'm not in that prison.
The parties I attend, drink in hand, cigarette perched between my fingers.
I make it all look easy.
Dragging on teh cigarette enough
to make my head spina nd make this party fun.
They're usually laced with pot, but that's just like me not to care.
The drinks always burn my throat going down.
At least the first 2 or 3 do anyways.
The 4,5,6 and somtimes 7th are hard to remember.
I barely wince as the burning travels down my throat.
No I never wince.
Wincing is weakness.
I'm Dorthoy clicking my heels together, because I want to go home.
I'm going home to the fights and the screaming.
I'm going home to the "You're not good enough"
and the "You're so much better then this!".
Then my spirit softens itself till about 3 a.m.
That's when I hear those 4 small clicks
car keys on a window pane, every Tuesday and Thursday night.
Then I'm out the window and back into the aforementioned pickup truck.
Windows down, feet up, cigarettes lit, wind blown hair, singing along to the radio.
I can talk and be heard.
Here is where I can be me.
My life is this boy's concern.
We drive for fear of going home.
When I get tired he turns on something soft and I fall into the crook of his arm.
Tired from the track practice I hate
The work that annoys me
The family that hates me
The grades that arent good enough
The drama that is just stupid shit
and the fucking school that wears me down
I doze to the sound of that lovely boy singing badly to the radio, the something soft he turns on for me.
He brings me home and I'm okay with that.
I slip into my room, under the covers and survive another day.
He makes me right, when I'm wrong.
He makes the "scene" not exist.
He makes me feel like I'm part of something real
All teh cigarettes on street corners and the anorexic girls that puke in the bathroom of our favorite, worn down, old school, coffee house and all the slits on shitty, whiny, little emo girls wrists and all the shitty bands we've wasted our hard earned money on don't matter when they should.
How Will I?
These are not concerns now.
All the preppy girls that dash my confidence with one slashing, ripping glance are but actors in a play in the back of my head on these nights.