"Screws fall out all the time.
The world is an imperfect place."
The Breakfast Club//1985
Well if screws fall out all the time and the world is supposed to be an imperfect place,
The bucket that sits in the corner of the old man's garage on 5th street,
Must be full of my screws for my world.
Maybe my heart is in there too.
Honestly, Probably.
More then likely.
It's being poked and prodded.
Pried open, and bleeding.
My blood dries in the cracks and crevices.
Not the cracks and crevices of the bucket, or the screws.
The cracks and crevices of my hands.
I have lived in a world upside down.
Here, let me describe it:
Like a snow-globe that sits on the shelf around Christmas time.
Like a snow-globe that is shaken 365 times a day.
Like a snow-globe that has greasy fingerprints on it.
Like a snow-globe that no one cares about, or wants to clean.
I live in a world of constant confusion.
Hate.
Low self-esteem.
Embarrassment.
Laughing stock.
& so much more.
I am not like the girls on magazine covers.
My house is almost constantly filled.
Filled with what, you may ask?
Filled with yelling.
Tears.
Hatred.
Anxiety.
Tension.
Annoyance.
And more tears.
I am not the perfect person in your eyes.
Yet, you want me to be.
You want to be just like me and I don't want that.
I am supposed to be the one that wants to be like you.
And that's the last thing I want.
I don't want to drive my children crazy.
I don't want to kick them out.
I don't want to make them stressed.
Or feel like they were cut from the wrong piece of ugly cloth.
Because.
Because myself, I.
I cannot physically cut the cloth and make me, you.
I hate myself because of you.
I hate my body because of you.
I hate my world because of you.
I hate me.
I know how to tie a smile on my face,
and laugh like I mean it.
You have made me vulnerable.
Vulnerable to myself.
To guys.
To everyone.
It has wrecked me.
I want to pull my hair out.
I want to scream.
Cry.
Feel pain.
But I also want to feel loved.
Laugh.
Free.
Happy.
And I can't do that because you're holding me back.
My heart is in a bucket full of screws,
Along with all the good memories of us.
Right now, all your doing is slowly deleting each good one with a bad one.
My hands covered in dried blood.
"The world is an imperfect place.
Screws fall out all the time."
The Breakfast Club//1985
