You’re posing somewhere chic.Your teeth are as white as its walls. Your hair is perfectly coifed. It doesn’t get caught in your teeth in gusts of wind when you smile. And it feels like you’re always smiling.
You’re not me. You make sense. You‘re dainty and consistent right down to your pinky toe. You have color coordinated your entire body in ways that would never strike me as beautiful… until I see it on you.
You don’t wear shirts with slogans that no one else will understand. I see that you care. And I care. I’m not you. I can’t decide if I understand you or not.
I don’t hate you and I’m not better. I don’t think you’re pathetic or stupid for caring about these things even though I don‘t value them as much.
All the same, I don’t want people to look at me the way they look at you. You’re easier to comprehend. You’re sweet sweet sweet.
We have that in common. I am kind! I’m not more interesting, but I am different. I want that a legacy of sweetness too… on some level. But don’t want everyone to love me. I hope I don’t always make sense.
I see your public life in pictures, which as everyone knows, hide and lie quite often. I don’t want to be that smile, I want to be everything that hides underneath. It’s my survival.
I want to be a world. I want the right people to love me and to make the worst people sick. I want the same level of loyalty that I dole out. I usually get it. I’m lucky that way.
I’m probably not wanted as much. You might be easier to love and digest. Less work. I’m a little jealous.
I wish us both soft destinies.
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