selfish - concerned chiefly with one's own personal profit

when i sew my anger together,
am i concerned about my own pleasure?

when i keep my worries moonlit for you,
is it a manmade trap i'm falling into?

when i express an emotion,
that is vulnerability that i have handwoven,
for you.
to show you
that "hey i trust you"

but vulnerability.
it is a manmade trap for trust to fall into

no one catches trust,
they leave her be.
and because of them,
trust has detached herself from me.

wait im meant to be talking about anger
oh well, screw "meant to be"
she is an illusion that begs for my plea
and she may very well exist,
but belief in her could be an insult to the scars on my wrist
i'm not entirely sure what that even means
i'm probably somewhat disconnected from little rose-gold dreams.

which is ironic coming from a little girl who loved big white dresses.
eat your apple and plant the seeds until it confesses
the betrayal that the world served to you on a silver plate
so the little girl said "i will no longer give my heart to fate"

maybe eve and her lonesome void did the same.
her story was twisted and mislabelled a checkmate

perhaps my chapters are more crosstitched
however, 'perhaps' is a loose thread
vulnerability is a maze with a dead end

within it the white dressed child crawled in circles
she explored a mystical world filled with portals,
one which tears your body and soul into quarters.
then you are restitched, white dressed ragdoll
you are restitched into chestnut petals.

i've pulled apart its seams
i've torn up "'perhaps" and discarded of its seeds
i've embroidered little songs and even bigger dreams
but stay with me, my mystic memories
wait i don't mean that i'm just trying to believe
that some little girls are made to let go
some little girls have fragments for a home
some little girls have to craft their own throne
climb up on your own
stitch the remnants of your growth

you know,
some little girls search for father figures in teachers
some little girls try to pull apart their features
so they don't look like their dad
so they don't screw up their plans
to join a planet of brave leaders
because who wants a leader with selfish on their face
or scarrred into their name every second of the day
carved into wrists, your blood can't run away
from the stage, where we don't know what role we play

we don't know what role we play
we put on our costumes, speak some words, paint a smile
why are my dreams about death? i should be walking down an aisle,
but who would walk me down it? the remnants of that child?
that child of the maze
she gets me trapped in a haze

higher up hold her crown to the clouds that are breaking you
hold her youthful ruse and show it every little hue
of all its petals crosstitched tightly on its skin
blooming on an aisle, stop asking where he's been

some little girls search for father figures in teachers
and people walking on the street
my armour may be scarred but this does not mean defeat
if stars hold the truth, worship planets and their moons
if time heals all wounds, then hereby i'll conclude:

that some wounds remain unhealed, they're dead flowers in our orchard
they're never really gone but we still keep moving forward



© StarrySummer