Pretty girls bleed flowers

They speak to the tune of grand symphonies

They dress to impress crowds the size of football stadiums. To express a sense of beauty and self worth the rest of us don’t possess. See what’s so alluring about a pretty girl is that with the less food she digests, the kindness behind her eyelids, the protests coming from her stomach as it must compress and recess to fit into that dress, I must confess where i depress and distress she radiates finesse and success.

I’m obsessed with the stress pressed into the crow's feet by her cheeks when she holds that false smile. The cracking of her disguise when i recognise the traumatize behind her warm eyes.

But her shes so pretty. So skinny and mini and twiggy and her chest, her ribs, so sickly but so pretty.

She bleeds flowers for hours while she’s slitting her wrists in the shower drunk on whisky sours to empower the insecurities holding her tight day and night she may seem bright despite the bite of depression pulling left and right but she’s losing the fight this isn’t right

She’s meant to be soft and beautiful

With hair that smells of rich perfumes and skin clear as the summer nights sky

It was on that summer night in july, below that clear sky when her eyes were dry with no more tears to cry, her thighs were wry having been cut and bled all by her own hand, when a rope became a necktie, from so high for a moment she could fly but flying is just falling without a permanent destination. Say goodbye to the ones she used to mystify, the minds she used to occupy it’s over she’s died your pretty girl has been mummified

And on her grave there lie flowers, beautiful flowers like the ones that dripped from her open wounds, beautiful flowers as pretty and as mystifying as a pretty girl in a small dress with a nice smile. pretty girl in a black dress with closed eyes and God by her side. A poster child for suicide. Because pretty girls can only bleed flowers whilst their blood is still pumping.