h1

ceci n’est pas une chanson [d.d.]

November 21, 2008

you can tell from the scars on my arms, and the cracks in my hips, and the dents in my car, and the blisters on my lips that i’m not the carefullest of girls

you can tell from the glass on the floor, and the strings that are breaking, and i keep on breaking more, and it looks like i am shaking, but it’s just the temperature

and then again, if it were any colder i could disengage, if i were any older i could act my age, but i don’t think that you’d believe me, it’s not the way i’m meant to be, it’s just the way the operation made me

and you can tell from the state of my room that they let me out too soon, and the pills that i ate came a couple years too late, and i’ve got some issues to work through

there i go again, pretending to be you, make-believing that i have a soul beneath the surface, trying to convince you it was accidentally on purpose

i am not so serious, this passion is a plagiarism, i might join your century, but only on a rare occasion

i was taken out before the labor pains set in and now behold the world’s worst accident: i am the girl anachronism

and you can tell by the red in my eyes, and the bruises on my thighs, and the knots in my hair, and the bathtub full of flies that i’m not right now at all

there i go again, pretending that i’ll fall, don’t call the doctors cause they’ve seen it all before, they’ll say just let her crash and burn, she’ll learn, the attention just encourages her

and you can tell from the full-body cast that i’m sorry that i asked, though you did everything you could (like any decent person would) but i might be catching so don’t touch, you’ll start believing you’re immune to gravity and stuff

and you can tell from the smoke at the stake that the current state is critical, i don’t necessarily believe there is a cure for this, so i might join your century, but only as a doubtful guest

i was too precarious, removed as a caesarian, behold the worlds worst accident: i am the girl anachronism

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