From Manic Pixie Dream Girl
Yesterday you told me that you’d kill yourself without me.
Every time I try to say that poetically
The rats you raised in my throat bite my tongue.
Instead, all I can say is ‘suicide’
Suicide, brains on hot pavement
A fully grown man calling me, half child, into the night.
You call me fickle. She-Devil. Temptress.
You tell me that I bring good men to their knees.
That I am a human noose and you, a ready corpse.
You are not expendable.
You are not the bright pink lipstick I wore for a summer
Then deemed gaudy come fall.
You are not half cracked styrofoam cups
And the second of silence right before the voicemail beeps.
You are none of these things and I,
I am not immortal.
I am not your muse.
Not your stiletto wearing knight in a too short skirt.
I am not made of the titanium bones you need
To keep your ribs bound and the hope in your lungs.
I am crowded metro carts
Vomit on a stranger’s shoes
The “Ma’am are you drunk?”
And the “No, sir, I’m just scared.”
I’m just scared.
Death looks me in the face and cracks my skull on the headboard.
I forget to feed myself, most days.
You wanted the moon, goddess of the hunt.
I am young.
I am sleeping pills, paint stained hands, the teddy bear I still keep on the bed.
I am not the verses I trace on your skin.
I am not your poetry.
Not the villain, not the hero, not the snake in your pants.
I am not the strength you need.
I am me. And I am trying.
All I could ever do was try.
By Elisa Vita
Elisa Vita is a 17 year old art student and writer from Quebec, Canada. She speaks to the plants and trees that she paints (Italian to the flowers, French to the pines, English to the rest). She dreams of writing books, days spent making art, and one day having a greenhouse in her very own backyard. Her room is full of loose papers and napkins, covered with verse.