even at 16,

i made the big boys cry.

my teenage self a confident liar in lust and love.

i belong at the park or museum,

all by myself

so i can scare away the blue birds

and overdose on shitty coffee.


i took all the lies they painted to me

and made my own art;


i really have become quite a piece of work.


i have become

what i always hated,

using dry phrases,

"inspiration, soulful, beautiful, creative"

and made you believe that is what you are too.


don’t you know i’m a fucking liar?

16 with no prospects,

21 with no morals,

a congenital liar before my first period.