Discounted Allure

Kelsey Amell
Roasting in this metropolis of competition.
My hair un-tucked, holes in my jeans.
Where is the line, this partition?
I must always play, lose, play, heave-always lose.
Where will I be left to be my own?
Joke's on them, for they've been in constant ignorance of what existence truly means.

Rouged lips-
Biting mine to alleviate the hurt in the least violent way. To spare the painful truth they can't bear to hear.
Blackened eyes-
I'm fighting against every little expectation, judgement, force and societal pressure.
Thin, ideal waistline-
I'm starving myself of the desperation for partners, constant attention from the opposite sex. The cuddles, the kisses, the love- the bullshit. Period.
Flashy heels-
Impaling every dirty look that has been nonchalantly flashed at me, every bullet of dissent shot at me.
Perfectly styled hair-
As it flows in the wind, it's whooshing away all of my unaccepted opinions- strong, to say the least. Sweeping away their stupidity and unfortunate lack of a mind.

How dare I not give a fuck about this month's trending nail color?
How dare I not give a fuck which shoe designer is like soooo totes like fab this fall? Like ohemgee.

I don't give a fuck- I don't like dresses- My fellow females disgust me-
Me, a feminist?- Not likely.