At first,  
I am every story you’ve ever loved:  
the girl with wild eyes and a crooked smile,  
the glitterbomb dropped into your heavy life.  
I am the Manic Pixie Dream,  
softened and sharpened just right,  
scripted to be the key you didn’t know you lost.  

I love it, too.  
I love playing her.  
I love the way I can become  
everything I thought I couldn't be—  
light, brave, impossible.  
I fall in love with the girl they see,  
the one who spins in the rain,  
who kisses like it’s a dare,  
who never stays still long enough  
for anyone to notice the cracks.

For a while,  
I even forget the weight of myself.  
For a while,  
the mirror throws back someone I almost recognize,  
someone almost worth keeping.

But the days grow teeth.  
The seams split.  
My clinginess stops being "cute,"  
my mess stops being "quirky,"  
my fear starts leaking through the paint.  

Then I remember:
I'm not magic.  
I'm work.  
I'm a maze with no ending.  
I'm a mouthful of needs no one knows how to swallow.

And they start seeing it too.  
The way I flinch when they look too long.  
The way my laugh gets hollow.  
The way I start pleading through my eyes,
"Please, please don't look closer."

I know how this ends.  
The Dream Girl dies the moment she becomes real.  
Nobody writes sequels for the ones who stay.

So I run.  
I tear the script from my hands,  
I rip the costume at the seams.  
I run before they can stop loving the idea of me,  
before they have to face the weight of who I am  
beneath the glitter and noise.

I find a new stage,  
a new pair of arms,  
a new chance to believe in the girl I invented—
if only for a little while longer,
If only to live in someone else's dreams,
If only to forget the weight of waking up.

Uptight,
Never quite right

Blame the “timing”
Despite countless years “trying”

Futile and undermining;
You’re forever chasing whatever it is you find most mesmerizing.

You’re done now with the tantalizing;
I’ve surpassed my prime,
Disposable-
You’re onto the next.

The latest shiny thing -
The “cool girl” trope;
Some pretty face for you to spit on,
Never for her to provoke.

Frail inside,
Your pitiful mind…

So the next one, just like the last:
A temporary home for you to impose your wrath.
Suffering eternally inside, running from your past;
Continually searching for something that will never be within your grasp.

Become more, for what? For who?
Why does it matter anymore?

Defining traits,
Surface level, it’s all they want anyways
So why even bother to face the pain

Introspective
And reflective
Admired only by myself

Not even in their language,
Mesmerized and entertained,
chasing always their counterfeited dreams, come to think of them as fiends

True gold is not recognizable by their shallow eyes
They fall for a quicker, shinier version, enlaced and filled with lies

“Cool,” their defining trait
Depth, care little if you portray

Theyd prefer the certain ease and masking of reality
Or perhaps they’re not even conscious of it, perpetually surrounded, lacking any reflection internally

See in others a reflected mirror image of themselves, providing a generic purpose, so life it seems has simplicity

Simplicity is a lie
Any man who believes he possesses it is merely in an altered state of mind

Ignorance will only carry you so far
Until time will make you see
Life is so complex, so we drown it out and reduce it down, begging to question what is REALity?