I told you when I came I was a stranger

(self portrait of Toulouse Lautrec in the crowd, at the Moulin Rouge)

*

She smelled of cigarettes

and never managed to cry.
She knew
she'd never been born again
so she killed any single
aspect of herself
in order to give it a try.
She never fell in love
She could only feel the blame
the pain
and the pressure
of being lonely
while feeling precious in her search
of happiness.

She could only feel the pain
of being in love
and singing
and could only confess to strangers.
Because she knew
they would never betray
the dreams, the clouds,
the rainbows and the tears
she'd confide in them.
Because they wouldn't care.

Hurting herself
in a million ways
just to start feeling
that she mattered
to anyone willing to help
or love her fragile world,
that's what she only wished for:
feeling she mattered.
She made her expectations
out of stardust
so she could wipe them off
and her eyes
were made of
a million tiny marbles,
colliding with her fears.


At last,
who could she probably expect
to love a girl drawing birds,
using colourful glitter?