by Celina Simmons
The best word for my generation.
Raised only to hide
Behind coats of makeup,
Behind that perfect picture post,
Behind your so-called
Scared of what others may say.
Scared of what you may say.
Scared of those disapproving eyes
That trace your every movement
And translate them in the worst ways.
Scared of the truth.
Taking all of our cold and hurt beauty
We carry like boulders on our backs
Until we can get home
And shove it all in the back of the drawer.
Hide it under anything and everything,
As if we were ashamed.
Ashamed of our rawness, our grittiness,
Who knew wings could pass as stones
in the pockets of a man
Who only wanted to swim home.
Glued to a phone or
Glued to false approval?
Having been told our whole lives
We are nothing.
But we are a beautiful something
And we are scared.
So until you show us what these wings are for
we will continue
To drown our nights with fake.
Categories: Arts & Culture