if my story were to end prematurely it would just be
another book without and ending lost under the dirt of
time and the grime of reality.
if my heart would just miss a few beats and give up entirely
i'd just be another body without a soul and another carcass
without a purpose.
i'd be so alone even in death.
the pathetic truth is that even though i think my name
is unique, it wouldn't serve any purpose to make me remembered.
i'd just be that girl with the oversized breasts and the one
that had a messy heart - too messy - and could never say the right words.
i have to face the fact that i am no
i try to remember that there are people that care and people
that say i'm worth remembering but i can't stand the lies.
i can't stand the burning fact that these people promise me these
things and then turn blindly when i become inconvenient.
i'm just another nine.
i'm not a new formula to be used or algorithm to be studied.
i'm just a dull blade that can't even cut the skin.
hard evidence can't be ignored and i shouldn't try to pretend
all the facts aren't there that lead me to believe
i'm better off in the ground where at least trees can feed off
my faded life.