Tim Burton is my Subconscious

Closing my eyes,

Letting words roll around in my empty skull,

Verbal bumper cars,

causing an echo.

Lying in my self inflicted darkness,

Just so I can feel some sort of peace,

And not so fucking pathetic.

The creepy little world,

Conjured up inside my echoing cranium,

Allows me to be a princess.

Her hair is ratty and her dress is torn,

But she’s still a princess.

You’re still my prince,

But when you open your mouth to speak,

Black butterflies flutter out,

And scanter among my bumper cars,

Sometimes the words fly to fast though,

And the butterflies get squished.