iridescent mind: poetry by me

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sometimes when I'm walking down the street i pretend I'm a fictional character.
a fake person with a fake life.
a fragment of someone's imagination.

i don't pretend I'm someone else, no.
I'm me. but different. less real.

When fake me speaks she does so perfectly.
her sentences become ink on paper.
She never eats her words.
She never uses the wrong tense.
She never says too much or too little.
She says the perfect amount. an amount perfectly calibrated by the author to make the perfect sentence. the perfect word amount.

When She speaks you can feel Every . Every  ,
Every "
Every !
Every ?
and they're all perfectly placed
and they all make sense
and they all have meaning, intention, direction.

When She cuts it's never a split second decision
it's always planned.
She never cuts too deep
She never cuts too much
When she sees blood it's never actually blood, it's just marker on paper, watercolor, acrylic paint.
She always knows why she's doing it
She always knows the best bandages to use so her arm isn't itchy.

When She lies about it it's the perfect lie,
and when she lies everyone believes her.
She always know how to respond when someone asks her why She's wearing long sleeves in 80 degree weather.
She always knows which foundation shade covers up scars better, makes them disappear.

She can't see the faint lines under the makeup, a testimony of the day before,
the white of the bandages under her sleeve.

When she looks in the mirror she doesn't see the extra fat. the kilograms she has to lose to be finally pretty.
because she is pretty.
She doesn't question it.
She isn't insecure about it.
She doesn't stare at her reflection for hours until her face doesn't look like her face anymore, it doesn't even look like a face.

She doesn't wonder how people see her.
She's the kind of pretty you notice.
the kind of pretty that when you see it you can't look away.
when people compliment her they don't only compliment her eyes.
they compliment her figure,her posture, her makeup, her legs, her arms, her neck, her ears, her mouth, her stomach, the way she smiles, the way she pouts, the dimples that form on her cheek, the way her eyes light up, how her presence makes their day better.

it's nice. pretending to be her. She's a lot better than real me. nicer to be around.
She's always happy when it's appropriate, sad when it's appropriate. and there's always a reason why She's happy, sad, angry.
it's never random.
it's always calculated.

i pretend to forget  that my life isn't calculated to the smallest detail by expert hands.

it's full of plot holes, blood stains, blemishes.
when I feel it doesn't make sense.
when I look in the mirror I don't think I'm pretty.
when I talk my words aren't ink. they're made of sounds. of vibrating vocal chords.
and sometimes they come out wrong.
and when i say something wrong, or too little, or too much, i can't go back and edit it out.

i want to be her so bad.
i want to feel the roughness of the paper when i touch my skin, the taste of the ink in my mouth when i speak. the red marker on my arm.
the empty pages when i read.

-i don't want to be real anymore

-V.