She laughs at her eloquence as the universe spins
in and out of her, threatening to choke her
just like the last time,
but she doesn't feel the hate now.
Wanted to rap it out the first time,
but was spinning too fast -
"You think you got me underwing,
but you don't get it honey,
I'm a certified queen.
You didn't treat me well,
you were obscene"... hey, I'm rapping
Fuck, yeah, I'm rapping.

She's always laughing at herself,
even when she's staring at you,
begging for help.
Talking to you, asking you questions -
you say "I'm sorry, I'm not what you expected."
"Oh, you're what I expected,"
and the laughs come back out.
"You're just... haha .you're not hahaha
not what I hahahahoped."

And the eloquence, the lucidity,
it's so perfect,
it so booklike,
so fake,
it makes her want to scream at herself.
Because admitting you're hurt shouldn't sound perfect,
knowing the truth,
saying it like it's nothing,
shouldn't happen.
You shouldn't be able to sit there
and tell it like it is
as if it's a book,
a well written dissection
of your own head.

But there it is, that eloquence,
far more prominent
in a dreamlike state
than ever it could be
in one sober.
Does that make
this storygirl
a monster?