The Fashion Victim

In telling your own tale, a burden’s born.
I have no power, no great or fine desire.
I have just art. My art. And paints are cruel.
A pencil, thin, but powerful, is mused.
The pencil has become society’s goddess.
It opposes me, jumbo-sized red marker.
It hates who I am, abnormally normal
In each aspect. I eat, I breathe, I drink
Copious amounts of alcohol. Take that
As overtly sarcastic. Because I am.

I have my wits about me. Just choosing
The right answer is difficult. Drawing,
However, can keep me sane. I draw women.
More specific: clothes. The hideousness that
We hide behind each day. Nothing is sacred
Anymore. Just when superficial, nonsense-filled brains
Are splattered on the floor, along with
Satin dresses and style, do people see.
The corset keeps me bound to this facade.
It holds me tight, and keeps me from fading.

The glass of rum will keep me from hating
This fashion world. This greed-fueled, nonsense world.
I will follow that white and timeless rabbit
As deep as he will go. I am Malice.
I am purity, the white lily, the fear
In eyes of all who cross me. Taken back
To simple times, I cry at thoughts of raw,
Naivety. I pray for simplicity to return.
But being two decades old, feeling hard
As bitter winter, realizing now, nothing
Can change the closed up part of me.

I’m cold, the white lily again, frozen
In that bitter winter. I vie for heat
And lean into sunlight, hoping, praying
For someone to pluck me, bringing an end
To all this pain we call life by taking
Me home, putting me in a vase on their
Mantle. Because love fuels me. Love and Art.

My art. My love. My small beating heart will
Open to those who will it. Pick a spot,
Settle in, and pray you stay inside. Not all
Who enter stay. And not all who enter
Are forgotten. But some have lost their spot.
And could never regain it. Show me sweet
And fighting compassion. Show me that you care.
Don’t lose your touch with reality. And you win.
I’m closed. I’m open. The perfect book you
Will never read. The best example of norms.