But Only When I'm Pretty Ver.2

tell me I'm pretty

tell me I'm beautiful

tell me you like me

but only when I'm pretty

fair-skinned light-weight porcelain pretty

standing atop a pamper pole,

you want more, then dub me a whore

stretch me out on a silken thread,

tie two ends atop New York or LA,

"balance!"

"keep still!"

if you want to move forward,

don't walk,

strut.

if you walk, you'll fall.

but if you strut, one foot in front of the other one,

your hips will shoot out,

it'll be sweet on men's eyes,

you will not fall.

"so keep yourself together! don't let go!"

but years gone by,

do know that you are destined eventually

to fall

my story though, it's different

in a way

i actually let myself go.

the worst pang a woman can hear,

is that she let herself go

now isn't that interesting?

but let me tell you something more,

so much more

when i took the step,

the thread became rope,

stood still, the soft gave leeway to solid

so that I could actually spring up as i jumped,

a split second i was in the air, right there,

above old York

slammed in the face, slammed in the core,

by gravity and

seagulls pecking at my feet

vultures tearing at my back

but still i held on,

i diff not let go and hugged gravity at the core

the skin at my shoulder blades tore apart,

there was a huge rip but it sounded like a breath

they were gigantic,

pitch black or maybe they were not

each feather speaking to me as if it had its own life

each one ached in effervescent solitude,

telling me to depart

to depart

and tip, top, up i went

up and up and up

my wingspan breadth i simply cannot recount

the magnitude crushed the people of New York,

but only those on the uppermost floors

they were a brush to the street walkers,

especially those gathered by the a/c unit for warmth

the barista paying for your coffee

for some reason other than your face

but really, you know it's your face

or maybe it's your body

they like it

it's sweet on the eyes

the person that comes after you,

no free lattes for them

they're average

but you,

you're sweet on the eyes 

yes, 

let's see here,

it seems each time i post something ive made

a thought i have, a poem,

something ive done,

the comments section,

zero,

the likes section,

meh

but y'all lose your shit when i post my face

oh, my face my face my face

a picture of me,

as an object,

taking a picture of me,

as the target 

it really is funny,

hidden troops raiding my profile in procession

going quite literally batshit crazy,

as if something I've been born with,

have no control over,

and that will go as soon as it has come,

is something to be PROUD of!

you suddenly take interest,

you suddenly ask questions

the privilege of that porcelain, feeble nimble face

never get cocky,

because it will go,

it will go

the problem with a cult

that's taken over the entire world

is that there are no people on the outside

to make fun of those on the inside

to say,

what the fuck? they have to be on some bat shit

why is it that half of the population spends five hours in the morning putting colors on their face,

pat pat,

with a sponge, 

while the rest go scott-free?