i used to want to be a cigarette girl,
have long blonde hair with smoky roots
and watch the pain go up in velvety rings.
i used to want five-blade razors,
a camera flash, and a filter applied.
glinting silver on a white lace bedspread.
i used to want a boy to kiss my scars away,
to take my hand through a polaroid camera,
baby soft lips on pale rose skin.
i used to want to take some pills,
spilled out onto the counter like candy.
a black and white picture of elegant dysfunction.
but soon i was bent over hacking up my lungs,
pressing a haphazard tourniquet to my wrist,
being kissed in new ways by strange, scary boys,
manging to right the chemicals in my brain.
and to tell you the truth,
i never looked back at those photos
or took any of my own
because this reality?
was nothing i wanted to capture
A/N: I had a lot of fun playing with aesthetics here- critiquing a particular style and the message it promotes while also using language that evokes it so strongly. Yeah, in case you guys couldn't tell, I'm not a fan of the darker side of soft grunge and I actually really like how this poem ended up criticizing it so strongly while not being confrontational towards the people who practice it.