Broken girls are always beautiful, at least, that is how they are portrayed in books. They always view themselves as plain; usually with pale, flushed skin and freckles that, no matter the amount of concealer, refuse to wallow in the background. Of course, the distressed mistress soon discovers that she is not, in fact, plain. How does she discover this, you ask? Her newly found, handsome, sensitive, and unique boyfriend. If I were beautiful, perhaps I would be more accepting of the emptiness I sometimes feel on silent nights, listening to airplanes soar through the dusky sky.
When girls say they’re broken, they really aren’t. The emotion they’re trying to conjure up doesn’t have a name, and therefore, cannot escape through twitching lips in utter need of sympathy. To be broken is to be completely shattered with nothing left that isn’t numb to the stabs passed out through the world. The way I sometimes feel can be compared to Christmas. I am empty, with little holes that fill ever so often with laughter and spontaneous, unprepared smiles. Then, not unlike the feeling one feels on early Christmas mornings after all the presents have been opened; I am left, once again, alone with nothing to prove of my recent burst of happiness except for some strewn wrapping paper and broken boxes, leaving me in a worse mood than before.


(i don't know, i just felt like writing something...)

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