the power of the art of the girl who could curate HerSelf

i think about

being a painting.

what if i was

agony and

tragedy

and beauty and beauty

in colour

on a canvas.

perhaps this is my downfall;

perhaps this

is my worst

what a blessing

what a blessing

someone prays for me!

i am a stereotype

non-understandably understandable

complexly simple

can’t you see

can’t you see

i’m just a statue

frozen in a moment in time -

i didn’t …

i didn’t save everything is that okay?

is that okay?

me, the destruction of the world.

the end of everything ,

it all crumbles away

and all that’s

left is

some warmth

some

strong semblance of love.

‘girlhood

is aesthetic

curation’

but it’s

also

holding hands with yourself

and coming

back home

to my girl

every night every night

and knowing you’re annoying

and enjoying being

hated

and those

nights

where you stay awake but

you’re falling asleep.

the end

of

the world

is everyday,

right after i wake up

and before i

remind the mirror

how lovely she is.