They’re clueless little angels of seventeen getting high by the beach. They have no idea what they wanna be when they grow up. I cover up the wind so he can roll up the pretty weed in a white napkin. I feel old as fuck like a bitter old beauty queen. A retired model off the front page of the magazines. I still don’t know what I want either. He’s sitting especially close to me; our knees meet. Perhaps, I could just lean in and he’d kiss me.
The guy sits next to me and arranges his trays of lollipops for the little Lolas, gum for dirty teeth, and cigarettes so we don’t need to breath. It’s an oral paradise of sweets. He says he doesn’t sell much after the 15th. I like that he has all his teeth when he speaks to me.
I’ve gotta kill my darlings. They end up killing me. Drowning them in a claw foot tub is my idea of classy. I think these girls wanna kiss me. I love boys with every part of my being. “Just adore me”. I gotta quite the rhyming. It’s not my fault that it just comes out so easily. He’s mad that I turn everything into stories. But is it my fault that stories are all I’m good at?
Mr. Black is afraid of his illusions being shattered. He’s created one for me. Do you even know me, Mr. Black?
Mr. Black is locked away in a mental institution. Can I come visit? I’m sick of just writing. We can pray together. I’ll make sure the Dark Lord stays away by hanging a cross over your bed. Don’t you trust me, Mr. Black? He says I keep offering him torture porn on a string. We’ve gotta pray harder to rid us of all this talk of sin.
I want to bring him a calendar. He’s a madman but even men like him need to know what day it is. Time passes for everyone. Young thing, you’re not exempt. I wonder if his room is padded because of the monsters. He says his room isn’t even padded because of him. A padded room is all I’ve ever dreamed of.
He says, “if boys weren’t silly, they’d be men”. He can’t control his hands. He’s a madman. Why does he offer me torture when I just want to be adored? Spankings or Tickling, which do you prefer? He says I won’t want to be adored anymore once I feel accepted. My heart breaks but I don’t.
Why are they popular when I’m cooler? He says I’m not popular simply because I am cooler. One cannot be popular while they are busy being cooler. It simply cannot be.
“I don’t need to sell my soul. He’s already in me.” Fuck Dracula. Fame Monster: take me, please, I beg you. I want to protect the underdog by standing in front of them when the Polaroids of us fall.
I want to be a simple queen. Mother of the underdog. Owner of the unique. Empress of the odd. Every cool kid shall bow. Bow down, brown cow. We’re the cooler kids now.
Perhaps you’re not young anymore and perhaps your youth was different than mine, however you can still feel how broken I am, how insecure, how scared, how I hate the popular kids but ache for their throne, how I love older men but they don’t love me back because they’re too old.
how I never have any money, how I like to smoke pot and float, how I go to clubs and face the wall and play with the shadows my hands and body make on the wall. I close my eyes when I dance and wish that someday – I’ll be adored.
The sky is black at night. Not waking up is morbid. These are simply matter of facts. That’s a description of your feelings. I never gave a rat’s ass.
Is English your first language? Yes. I speak Portuguese but yearn to know French. I am only asked this because I’m an undistinguishable kind of brown. White boys don’t ever get this question because white means you’re from around.
He says it’s a damn shame that we can’t dock. I was born here; they cut it and your dad didn’t tell them to stop. Now we can’t dock. Look it up.
Sad boy aesthetic. Get it at the gift shop. Imitations sold in Chinatown. Sad boy without a single teardrop. Look up my blog; thegrotesquedreamer dot wordPress dot com. How many followers you really got? Only one sad boy in my lane from the very start. Now the mic must drop.