DEAD VANITY

They put me on every magazine cover and my name was on the front page because I’m the star and this is my show. It’s so easy to sit and program yourself to be the scary scream or the nightmare dream but that’s more the cliché, it’s just another suicide attempt you’ll fail at and write about in your next review. If you’re not a critic then why are you self-slaving over a glamour trailer trash beauty queen who will look better in a coffin then you? Forcing the dead vanity back into my mouth will only result in another chain reaction of praise and love. A stalker’s dream that I’ll come to you instead of having to hunt me down because you were never worth it in the first place. I have no urge to fix this body because I’m happy and that’s what makes you write with your broken fingers and electro shocked brain, you have to. It’s easy to pick apart what you’re not. It’s so simple to cut open what you thought you knew and strip it all down so it’s now something to digest.

And still it’s not enough for you and it never will be. But the goal here is to push your face in the dirt and realize something you’ve never thought about before: you don’t matter. And once that sinks in like a dead body floating down the river, finally lost forever.. it feels nice doesn’t it? Keep trying to take down what’s already there because it’s all you can do. Trapped inside your fear, you die without reason and that’s when you mention the outside appearance that never really was important.

When the room is quiet and you're standing in front of the mirror; gazing into your complexion of fear, that's when the tranquil reality sets in.. you are real. The moment you blink to find that the translucent skin shows the memories of your artificial world that's when you realize everything is covered up with the concealer-censorship of glamour. False advertisement candy-coated fear. In my world, I live in the self-absorption, soulless vanity, hyper consumption and celebrity obsession of the Me decade. The appearance of my own body is cut and dissected every time I breathe. My horror of beauty is not when I'm laying naked on the bathroom floor, but when I'm staring at myself, wondering what's underneath the paint-on feelings and blacked eyes. I'm not a fucking beauty queen. When I walk into the bathroom, I'm not getting pretty.. I'm destroying myself. Repairing myself from the damage I’ve done, not from the outside world because I’m great. Whether YOU like it or NOT. The ceiling of fear crashes down on me when I pick up the latest fashion magazine and find that no one else looks like me. But what is me? Where has the word 'real' gone to? Maybe reality is blonde hair, plastic body parts, tan skin and porcelain teeth? I think it's sweaty skin, smeared lipstick and a big mouth, being afraid of nothing and truly LOVING yourself without BEING someone else. The vanity sanctuary will keep me safe and you can try to kick me down but you’re only hurting yourself, just like you’re supposed to.

Eat, sleep, work, bitch, complain, scream, cry, repeatrepeatrepeatrepeat. A cockroach in the big scheme of things. One less insect to worry about. Write whatever name you fucking want on the name tag, its still a copyofacopyofacopyofacopy. You’re a Xerox and I’ll set you on fire.

Grow up, be the big famous degenerate. You’ve got it baby, you’re a million bucks waiting to be spent and chewed up. On the big screen you don’t look so bad but the drugs will take they’re time getting you. Just like everything else. When the beauty fades, you’ll be prettier then everyone else, or was that me? Who said grey and grey and grey wasn’t nice to look at? In black and white you look like shit and your face is my vomit after I’ve eaten you’re fake words. Save it, just this once, hold your breathe. I’ll be dying in my makeup and you’ll be dying without it. Did you have a point? Because somewhere in your own special ugliness you lost meaning and I forgot what you said. So center the text and write some more, it’s all mine..and its all needneedneed. Memememememe.

You’re famous last words were forgotten because no one was listening.

Quite time now, surgery isn’t an option.