I suck at letting synecdoche suffice. Whenever I write, I have to explain my metaphors to the point of exhaustion, because I'm too scared that people will pick  up my poetry and only look at the pictures. I'm afraid that I'll be misunderstood, that meaning will slip into oblivion, hidden behind trees and flowers and whatever fucking imagery seemed to suit me. I can't write with subtlety without the fear overtaking me that the point will be forgotten under the touch of a less tender reader.

I suck at letting synecdoche suffice. My 18th birthday is rapidly approaching, and yet I can't find a single thing to ask for. I've come to understand that As Seen On TV doesn't lead to fulfillment, and no matter what cool clothes I put on it, I'll still hate my body, I'll still feel the same fucking way. I considering asking for a party, but I don't want to see the masks. What I really want is friendship, but that can't be purchased, and I don't know how to explain to my parents that throwing the money they really don't have at me won't fix a goddamn thing. Either way, birthday or no, I still end up lonely.

The End

1 comment about this work Feed