I love the air that wafts across
when you’re around.
I like that I sneak out of my room,
dragging my nightdress behind me,
the way I drag my dead conscience.
It’s useless,
But I need it for show.
I’m not supposed to be this,
I shouldn’t even think it.
But I’ve bought the cheap idea
that an oversized soul
lives in my small body.
I fight it sometimes.
The fighting is useless,
But I need it for show.
It will not be said of me,
that I crawl out of bed
to satisfy the hunger
that I shouldn’t even know yet.
But I can’t help it.
My master is waiting.
I’m young. Too young,
I recite rhymes to myself
to remind me and every one of my innocence.
It’s useless.
But I need it for show.
I do it for the aftertaste,
the smoothness, and the power
that surges through my body,
for rebellion,
Not validation.
I say this every night,
before I sneak out to be punished.
It helps. A little. Not really.
It’s practically useless.
But I need it for show.
Nobody thinks anything of it.
Hell, they don’t even know.
But I can’t stop.
I don’t even think
when I sink to my knees
and take it all in
at once.
What a brave little girl.
If it makes anyone feel better,
I hardly ever swallow.
So it never takes effect.
But I’m high off of it anyway,
and man, do I like it…
I really shouldn’t drink,
But wine helps my cowardice,
buys me time, even shows me love.
Oh whatever.
My excuses are useless,
But I need them for show.
AKA The Ink magician. I’m Superwoman and chocolate is my kryptonite.
