#13 - paint

i never feel clean. physically, emotionally, inside and out. there is always a layer of skin that i can never seem to shed. i grew up around filth, so i basked in the presence of people that resembled home. its comical, embarrassing even, because i don't realize until my sleeves are rolled up and i'm elbows deep into cleaning up someone elses caked up mess. 

you can search and touch until you find the opening i let crack open too wide, i don't think i've ever not had a person take advantage of a single gap that i accidentally let blossom in front of them. i find it easy to drift off from fantasies you describe, because i already told myself from day one it would never be what my mother tried to tell me what true love was supposed to look like, and warned me to stay away from anything that resembled the dinner table i set over and over again. sometimes it never clicks until it's the middle of the night, and i pause. 

no wonder i'm obsessed with making sure things look pretty. if you can see it that way from the outside, it must match the same tune strummed from the harp you made from your rib cage. what else am i supposed to look at besides the soft trail you drag across each note? the same ones you used to spread me open and kiss my temple in a way i'm convinced you love me. 

and i don't believe in god, but i believe something brought me to you. 

ive always loved the red string theory. i usually compare how i feel to an unravelling ball of yarn. i think i like to imagine someone holding on tightly to the other end. i know it's embarrassing, and i cant help but sometimes resemble my 6 year old self watching my first princess movie. 

long dresses and painted nails,

fairys, pixie dust, and a promise ill live happily ever after. 

i never related to those girls, anyways, and i knew something about waiting to be saved was never going to come. 

i wish my makeup felt the same as it does for them, but i end up feeling like a pig with lipstick on.