Self-inflicted hate, hearthob.
Double the lines that cross
over my heart. Pretty faces
with fake smiles. Made in America.

Perfection seeps under my nails
as I take off fakeness. You can act real
now. Basketcase.

I shall never be anything that amounts
to the tip of your control. This
weight holds me down. I struggle in
my freedom.

A thought hovers over me like
a ghost in my bedroom. I swear I
it speak.