Miss Goody-Two-Shoes

I am too pretentious. 

Too many words, so many syllables, like a poorly timed Wes Anderson film.

I am too young to sound like this, a disenchanted poet when poets are supposed to have experienced the world, felt the sea breeze and heartbreak only voyagers can attest to.

I live vicariously through creaking spines of books and fading photos taken before my time.

I am too pretentious.

I promise you, I know not the world that lies ahead of me. I know not the highs and lows of living off of the kindness of strangers.

What I do know, I write. And I romanticize. And I poeticize the fuck out of, until it isn’t recognizable as an eighteen-year-old voice screaming into the abyss.

I am finding who I am.

I am too pretentious for my own good.


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