even at 16,
i made the big boys cry.
my teenage self a confident liar in lust and love.
i belong at the park or museum,
all by myself
so i can scare away the blue birds
and overdose on shitty coffee.
i took all the lies they painted to me
and made my own art;
i really have become quite a piece of work.
i have become
what i always hated,
using dry phrases,
"inspiration, soulful, beautiful, creative"
and made you believe that is what you are too.
don’t you know i’m a fucking liar?
16 with no prospects,
21 with no morals,
a congenital liar before my first period.