Pretty Things

…people say that you’re the lucky one.

Because I’m young.

Because I’m pretty.

They say it when I’m there, and they say it when I’m not.

But they don’t know.

They don’t know that I’m an old soul with an ugly, blackened heart. A crooked child who grew up to be a wicked woman, peering up at the world with big, blue eyes under long lashes like the spindly legs of a spider that fancy themselves the appendages of an artist. I say I make pretty things to symbolize emotion or passion or beauty or anything you like, but that’s a lie. I make pretty things so people will say that they are pretty so people will say that I am pretty because I want to be told I am pretty and I want to be liked and I want to be adored and I want to be wanted. Every single thing I’ve ever made is the same cry from a crooked child’s mouth, a pathetic plea for help that I have been repeating over and over  and over again for as long as I can remember.

Love me. Love me. Love me.

And that is the truth.

I am a bundle of raw and exposed nerve endings with the skin peeled back. I’ve handed you the knife and I will lay here forever, open and vulnerable and waiting for the moment you realize that spiders do not make good wives and you decide to plunge the blade in to me, if you decide to plunge the blade in to me, because that is what love is.

But you won’t.

Because you’re not like me.

Because you’re good.

…I’m the lucky one.

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10 thoughts on “Pretty Things

  1. It is a pleasure to meet you. I popped over to your visual art site to peruse your beautiful glass castings, then read this piece of raw truth and vulnerability. I admired both.

    Liked by 1 person

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