Raw and New Piece

Inspired by a girl I never met, but heard a lot about. It's still a bit raw, seeing as I wrote it on the train this morning.

"Wake up, Pretty Girl"

The last time you looked at the night sky
You wished you were a falling star
And never told anyone.
You were seven.

Now thirteen years later
The only type of astrological reading you get
Is from a magazine.

Last night you had dinner bought and paid for by that friendly waiter you flirt with.
You know, the one with the blue eyes.
Perhaps it was that new perfume you bought
Or your new dress
No it was your shoes, definitely the shoes.
Had to be, the shoes.

There are more than 200 things an intellegent girl can do with her free time
Read a book, write an essay, learn a language,
Paint a picture, volunteer at a hospital, tutor children.
But you like to converse with your stuffed animals
Straighten your hair, ponder the complexity of Justin Timberlake’s dance moves.
I mean, how does he do it and sing at the same time?

Maybe its because you’ve always gotten what you wanted with a smile.
And the only time you spend by yourself is before you’ve got your lipstick on.
But this morning you walked back to your apartment
After a long night of partying and
The only sound you heard was the click click clicking of your shoes
On the abandoned pre-dawn pavement.
And it gave you time to think
Just for a moment
What it’s like to be alone.

You push you push
You push these thoughts out of your head.
Like anything that causes you to question
Is poison and anything that causes introspection
Is an inaccurate reflection of your beaming exterior

Wake up, pretty girl.
We both know there’s been more that you’ve been concealing than freckles.
They’ve bought and sold your body
As real estate to the master race
Because who needs genocide when you’ll pay them for it.
Beneath your designer dress beats the heart of a vacant woman
who has yet to fill herself full with purpose.
And within your shoes are feet that have forgotten the feeling
Of soles pressed up against the earth.
Time’s running out,
And no amount of wide pouting or flirting will buy you these years back.

Maybe tomorrow, you’ll write a letter to your future self
In purple sparkly ink and explain
What happened to the past 13 years.
And what you hope will happen between now and when you open this letter
In 13 more years.
You’ll dot the i's with hearts to cover the shake in your script.
You’ll sign it with a smilie face and splash with perfume.
Sealed with a kiss.

Maybe tomorrow night, you’ll open your magazine
And your astrological reading will only say:
"Go outside.
Look up."