Lies

I guess I'll never know    
why I get drunk on my own reflection.    
I could stare at it for hours,    
getting lost in my own eyes.    
I'm so beautiful    
and I don't seem selfish.    
That's a lie.    
   
I can think of more lies.    
Wide eyes,    
curved thighs -    
but I know what I'm doing,    
and I move in and out of femininity,    
and four of the guys I've fucked don't know that.    
They wouldn't care,    
so neither do I.    
   
I have a boy's face    
and a woman's curves    
and a nymph's look    
(at least, that's what he wrote) -    
how could a body    
be such a perfect    
analysis of its occupant?    
People see a woman.    
I don't see a woman.    
I really don't.    
And knowing all the things I do to get attention,    
I would refute this so fucking fast    
if I could.  
   
But they want to fuck a girl.    
So I let them.    
Lies like those don't really hurt anyone.    
   
I've told    
(made)    
lies    
that could hurt people very badly.    
I don't care    
and I won't pretend to.    
She doesn't know about me.    
I like the way he smells    
and how it sticks on my skin,    
so she won't know about me    
or us.    
Vicious, I am -    
I can see blood, but not from my wrists.    
Scars I made    
the way I want them,    
exactly like art.    
And not for pain. For healing.    
No, not wrists.    
Ankles. No one sees that.    
   
My lips sway like a virgin's.    
I fall in and out of love    
like it's the fucking hokey-pokey,    
and I use them    
to spin the steering wheel    
like I'm really going to drive off the bridge this time,    
but it's never high enough,    
and the right song won't come on,    
and no matter how many people I get addicted to,    
I'll still be in withdrawal.    
   
   
   
~    
   
Age when written: 16