my fixation on fashion is, i know, (but would deny)
the result of my heavy-handed implementation of superficiality
enforced when I got old enough to notice how embarrassing all of my angst and darkness are.
 
denied my deep-rooted need for introspection,
 I channel my nervous energy into hair masks
and the perfect smoky eye
and filling my closet with hundreds of dresses
I may never wear,
but which will always belong to me,
because I paid for them.

it is possible, i suppose,
that this need for ownership
stems from a childhood spent knowing I just barely escaped the poverty that had defined the lives of my parents and sisters for decades,
or from some inescapable, adolescent bullshit
where I feel like if I spend enough money,
I can trick everyone into thinking I’m pretty. 

or maybe I’m just two beers in and hiding from that self conscious way I touched the scar on my chin (when I read that post you knew I’d read)
and thought “I never even knew you’d noticed that.”

2 Notes/ Hide

  1. linneaclare posted this