I don't know why, but I just can't believe in myself. Every dream is tinted with the bitter edge of failure. They fall from me, scattering like broken glass. They cut into me, reminding me of the minutes that pass, of each moment where I am nothing and going nowhere.
Frustration rubs against my mind, sometimes until I walk the line of sanity. I used to scream at the top of my lungs in my high school nights, ripped out my hair in chunks and once I found myself in the ER after nearly passing out from chest pains - the membrane of my ribs inflammed from stress.
Everywhere I go I don't feel good enough. So many years of needing more, wanting to be more...have I gone mad? And then I realize that I'm trying to please an insatiable enemy. For long I've said a quiet "fuck you" to all those who thought I wasn't good enough, to those who didn't believe in me or brushed me off, to my father. I say to them look at where I am, look at what I have done in my 19 years but I'm not finished yet...there's more, there's so much more. I say to them I won't stop until I make you feel ashamed of yourself, until I make you feel worthless, until jealousy rips you apart - maybe then you'll see how you made me feel. But then I see, I see how empty all of this is. The pursuit of something so wrong, so questionable, so against everything I believe in.
It used to be driven by a pulsing and unignorable anger, but now the anger has grown subversive. It evolves like Issey Miyake fabrics, transforms like a Hussein Chalayan dress. It hides, it wears a beautiful Marc Jacobs outfit flowing down a catwalk, beckoning with her soft glowing eyes - "look at me, where I can get you, where I have gotten you, believe in me." But it wasn't you, it wasn't you, it was never you. It was me, this fearful child still hiding in the apartment above a chinese restaurant, still afraid of ghosts in the walls. It was never your cunning, but my innocence, never your beauty, but my ugliness.
.
Frustration rubs against my mind, sometimes until I walk the line of sanity. I used to scream at the top of my lungs in my high school nights, ripped out my hair in chunks and once I found myself in the ER after nearly passing out from chest pains - the membrane of my ribs inflammed from stress.
Everywhere I go I don't feel good enough. So many years of needing more, wanting to be more...have I gone mad? And then I realize that I'm trying to please an insatiable enemy. For long I've said a quiet "fuck you" to all those who thought I wasn't good enough, to those who didn't believe in me or brushed me off, to my father. I say to them look at where I am, look at what I have done in my 19 years but I'm not finished yet...there's more, there's so much more. I say to them I won't stop until I make you feel ashamed of yourself, until I make you feel worthless, until jealousy rips you apart - maybe then you'll see how you made me feel. But then I see, I see how empty all of this is. The pursuit of something so wrong, so questionable, so against everything I believe in.
It used to be driven by a pulsing and unignorable anger, but now the anger has grown subversive. It evolves like Issey Miyake fabrics, transforms like a Hussein Chalayan dress. It hides, it wears a beautiful Marc Jacobs outfit flowing down a catwalk, beckoning with her soft glowing eyes - "look at me, where I can get you, where I have gotten you, believe in me." But it wasn't you, it wasn't you, it was never you. It was me, this fearful child still hiding in the apartment above a chinese restaurant, still afraid of ghosts in the walls. It was never your cunning, but my innocence, never your beauty, but my ugliness.
.
posted by QC at 10:03 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home