i am intricate.
a spiderweb, criss-crossing in the corner of your attic. i am ripped and ragged, but i cling on.
i am complicated.
i am the blood on a razor blade, the pattern of scars on your hips, the tremor in your voice when you know you're going to cry.
quick to anger, quicker to forgive, quickest to forget. i'm laughing, i'm crying, i'm screaming, i'm smiling. blink and you'll miss me.
i spend hours and hours and hours with my knees on the ground, but no amount of wine they pour down my throat can drown the taste of another girl's lips.
the mascara dripping down your cheeks. the smell of smoke that you can never ever seem to wash from your clothes. the apologies you never meant.
a mess, a travesty, a walking disaster, yet somehow, somehow,
i am beautiful.
a porcelain doll with a chipped nose, a cracked mirror, a wilting boquet, and those soft, angelic features splayed across the magazines, too glossy to be real.
i am a masterpiece, the kind that makes you stare and wonder what could have possibly been running through the artist's mind when they made me.
but, simply, i am intricate.
disjointed yet interconnected, held together with scotch tape and bubblegum,
i am me.