I crave validation.
I want—no, need it like a lifeline,
Like a child in the face of a sweet treat,
Like a bird to a worm writhing from the ground,
Like a starving man at the mere sight of food,
Like a wolf to whoever dares harm its pack.
It sears through my body like white, burning pain,
It rips me of my sight to consequence,
It’s a drowning poison, yes.
But how am I supposed to let go?
How am I supposed to not look at any sort of praise and think,
God, I want that.
It tears me apart like a knife does in snow,
Jelly,
         Water,
                     Air,
But I would be a liar to say that isn’t what I want.
Is it a fault of mine that I desire with all my ****** up being
for something that isn’t a momentary
“Okay,”
              “Alright,”
                      ­           “Good job,”
                                                       “You’re fine,”
It’s not, it’s not okay or alright or good or fine,
I need someone to scream at me that what I’ve done is perfect,
More than great,
More than amazing,
More than wonderful, or spectacular,
More than perfect.
And if I can’t have that,
Then at least yell at me that what I’ve done is nothing,
At least beat the ****** **** out of me
And tell me to go **** myself.
Because that hurts less than
A bunch of half-hearted responses that
I never know how to interpret over text,
And never know how to comprehend in speech.
Just spare me the misery, that’s all I need.
I’d prefer you be cruel than make me guess
What you’re thinking.
Because it always eventually occurs to me that
Neither what you’re thinking or saying
Are the validation I crave.
So just save us all the trouble
And put me out of my ****** misery
Already.
Because if I’m not everything,
Then what can I be but nothing?

When I space out
I’m not in lala land.

I’m in the depths of hell
Drowning alone.

I’m not skipping amongst flowers
With a lover holding my hand.

I’m alone suffering my self inflicted pain.
Even if I’m surrounded by my people.

So don’t wave your hand in front of my face.
And make me pretend to be happy with you.

Just let me suffer alone.

At first,  
I am every story you’ve ever loved:  
the girl with wild eyes and a crooked smile,  
the glitterbomb dropped into your heavy life.  
I am the Manic Pixie Dream,  
softened and sharpened just right,  
scripted to be the key you didn’t know you lost.  

I love it, too.  
I love playing her.  
I love the way I can become  
everything I thought I couldn't be—  
light, brave, impossible.  
I fall in love with the girl they see,  
the one who spins in the rain,  
who kisses like it’s a dare,  
who never stays still long enough  
for anyone to notice the cracks.

For a while,  
I even forget the weight of myself.  
For a while,  
the mirror throws back someone I almost recognize,  
someone almost worth keeping.

But the days grow teeth.  
The seams split.  
My clinginess stops being "cute,"  
my mess stops being "quirky,"  
my fear starts leaking through the paint.  

Then I remember:
I'm not magic.  
I'm work.  
I'm a maze with no ending.  
I'm a mouthful of needs no one knows how to swallow.

And they start seeing it too.  
The way I flinch when they look too long.  
The way my laugh gets hollow.  
The way I start pleading through my eyes,
"Please, please don't look closer."

I know how this ends.  
The Dream Girl dies the moment she becomes real.  
Nobody writes sequels for the ones who stay.

So I run.  
I tear the script from my hands,  
I rip the costume at the seams.  
I run before they can stop loving the idea of me,  
before they have to face the weight of who I am  
beneath the glitter and noise.

I find a new stage,  
a new pair of arms,  
a new chance to believe in the girl I invented—
if only for a little while longer,
If only to live in someone else's dreams,
If only to forget the weight of waking up.