deepundergroundpoetry.com
Pretty Little Thing
Aren't I a pretty little thing?
For the soft hair that people love to pet, love to touch, love to comb their fingers through.
For the beautiful eyes that with a couple of bats of the lashes have men on their knees, hypnotized by my gaze.
For the perfectly pale skin that makes the slightest compliment noticable with the red blush that stains my marble colored skin.
The slender body that I hide with heavy, baggy clothes so that I may hide my body from the eyes of the men who want to stare and gawk at it.
These men are the ones that follow me around street corners in dark alleys at night, the men who will ask a million times if they can buy me a drink.
These are the men that will do me favors because they like the way I look, eyeing my body as if it were a showcase instead of something important to me.
My smile can turn a grown man tongue tied, it has been that way since I was fourteen sadly.
Men of the older and younger class have tried to persuade me into their cars, into their houses, into their webs, into their lairs and into their beds.
Oh how thankful I am for these men who will smack my ass whenever they pass because they feel that it belongs to them, these men who will follow me, manipulate me, ask to buy me things or escort me somewhere as if I am a toy that everyone gets a turn to play with and then pass around to the next one.
Why do I stain my arms with these scars, and dye my hair bright colors?
Because I do not want you to look at me, I want you to repulsed by me, I do not want you to look at my body because that is all you see.
You don't even know my name, let alone the color of my eyes--
Anywhere above the shoulders was not where your eyes wandered, being nothing but a friend was not where your thoughts pondered, love and loyalty was not where your heart was set--
You are not thinking about anything more than how to get in my pants, what are the right words to say to me that will get me to open the door between my legs, not the one in my heart--
You could care less about that.
Such a pretty, such a darling little thing.
And now I have a gaggle of faces glaring and gawking at me, my unnaturally colored hair and tempting green eyes.
My elegant features that people assume make me think I am better than anyone else, but I know that I am not.
I do not see the girl in the mirror as beautiful, there is nothing remotely alluring about her--
If there was I would wipe away that feature with a quick slice of the knife or the razor.
I do not want to be taken seriously about how I look, my head will get too big and then probably fall right off my shoulders and go smashing through the floor.
And I can't count of men smacking my ass, if I can't count on being called a show pony because I have smarts and talents all with this beauty I have been cursed to bear.
Yes I know, if I so hate people looking at my body then why do I flaunt it, why do I wear too high skirts, to low shirts, to revealing clothes that would make the gentlemen blush and the ladies in high collars and too many petticoats to count gasp in digust.
Oh yes my tattered dressed and my brightly colored stockings, my dark make-up and my pale complexion.
My small figure that the corset can fit perfectly around, what wrong with me--
I must be too skinny, is that why these women try to get me too eat more or are they just jealous of my very thin-ness that they have to make it into something being wrong with me.
But I did not ask to look like this, and I did not ask for your husbands to look at me you cold, sniveling women.
Or your wives to flirt with me either, you stone heart, filthy mongrel that call yourselves men.
I did not ask for these men and women to look at me, to flirt and to smile--
I did nothing but look the way I want to look with the body and features that I was given by God.
Such a pretty, pretty little thing.
Don't hate me because I smile and I get free drinks, that people offer me rides and that men follow me in the dark alleys at night.
Don't hate me because even with bright colored hair and clothes one would wear to a custome ball I am still looked at with praise.
Do not hate me for my beauty and do not envy my please--
I do not wish for you to be gawked at when you walk down the street in a too short of a skirt.
I do not wish for you to be offered drinks and escorted to bars and diners by men who only wish to catch you in their web and drink the innocence from your veins.
I do not wish for you to be that iconic image, that men see and think that it is alright to smack your ass calling you "doll" or "baby".
Some pathetic moniker of trying to claim as their property and only to pass around what you do, how you act, and what you're like to their friends as if you are nothing but then a new toy to brag about.
I do not want you to have that fate my dears, you ones that are green with envy for the beauty that I was born to have.
And no I am stuck up, I am not egotistic at all costs, I hate the way I look and do not see what all of you people most see.
I am nothing to myself, but a joke-- a pathetic joke to laugh at.
I am a talented and truthful mind that had danced with the devil because of the beauty I was cursed to hold.
I am not beautiful with vain though.
I know that I am not perfect, I am not an English rose, and I am not someone's girl--
I am nothing to no one, I am not a fool who wishes to have her body put on display for men to put their filthy hands all over so that I do not feel clean anymore.
Is it enough that men have put their hands on my body thinking that they could, that they destroyed me with their touch and left me shaking and bleeding on a dirty floor.
Because I am beautiful, because I am stocking and curl--
Well these looks and torments turned me into a fucking suicide girl!
Oh pretty, pretty broken thing.
For the soft hair that people love to pet, love to touch, love to comb their fingers through.
For the beautiful eyes that with a couple of bats of the lashes have men on their knees, hypnotized by my gaze.
For the perfectly pale skin that makes the slightest compliment noticable with the red blush that stains my marble colored skin.
The slender body that I hide with heavy, baggy clothes so that I may hide my body from the eyes of the men who want to stare and gawk at it.
These men are the ones that follow me around street corners in dark alleys at night, the men who will ask a million times if they can buy me a drink.
These are the men that will do me favors because they like the way I look, eyeing my body as if it were a showcase instead of something important to me.
My smile can turn a grown man tongue tied, it has been that way since I was fourteen sadly.
Men of the older and younger class have tried to persuade me into their cars, into their houses, into their webs, into their lairs and into their beds.
I am blessed with the ability to look this good with my clothes on, I am glad to know that once I have given my soul to these men, they lose my number and don't remember me whatsoever.
I am glad that I my wit and my talents are questioned as being anything extraordinary considering I am nothing but a pretty face.
Thank you for making me a show pony that only thrives on attention even when I am sick and bleeding because I have been hurt, I have been raped, I have been molested, I have been destroyed.
And people wonder why I don't believe in God?
Because God gave me this body, this life, and these hard times--
Gave me your eyes, gave me your attention and gave me your envious glares and your jealousy.
I have worked hard to be where I am today and it is not because I am pretty.
It's because I have had a hard life, from being considered mad as a wild flower to being useful as a door nail, to being as easy as a door mat.
The remarks.
The glances.
The free drinks.
The fabled romances.
The dreams.
The heart breaks.
The lust in their veins.
The smile.
The eyes.
The hair.
The figure.
The pale complexion.
The questions.
The non-beliefs,
The dark alleys.
The forced touch.
The waiting cars.
The predators.
The nightcrawlers.
The stalkers.
The demons.
The reflection.
The mirror.
My fist.
The shattered glass.
My slit wrists.
My face lost in the crowd, of nobodies-- Never to be seen again.
Aren't I just a pretty little thing?
For the soft hair that people love to pet, love to touch, love to comb their fingers through.
For the beautiful eyes that with a couple of bats of the lashes have men on their knees, hypnotized by my gaze.
For the perfectly pale skin that makes the slightest compliment noticable with the red blush that stains my marble colored skin.
The slender body that I hide with heavy, baggy clothes so that I may hide my body from the eyes of the men who want to stare and gawk at it.
These men are the ones that follow me around street corners in dark alleys at night, the men who will ask a million times if they can buy me a drink.
These are the men that will do me favors because they like the way I look, eyeing my body as if it were a showcase instead of something important to me.
My smile can turn a grown man tongue tied, it has been that way since I was fourteen sadly.
Men of the older and younger class have tried to persuade me into their cars, into their houses, into their webs, into their lairs and into their beds.
Oh how thankful I am for these men who will smack my ass whenever they pass because they feel that it belongs to them, these men who will follow me, manipulate me, ask to buy me things or escort me somewhere as if I am a toy that everyone gets a turn to play with and then pass around to the next one.
Why do I stain my arms with these scars, and dye my hair bright colors?
Because I do not want you to look at me, I want you to repulsed by me, I do not want you to look at my body because that is all you see.
You don't even know my name, let alone the color of my eyes--
Anywhere above the shoulders was not where your eyes wandered, being nothing but a friend was not where your thoughts pondered, love and loyalty was not where your heart was set--
You are not thinking about anything more than how to get in my pants, what are the right words to say to me that will get me to open the door between my legs, not the one in my heart--
You could care less about that.
Such a pretty, such a darling little thing.
And now I have a gaggle of faces glaring and gawking at me, my unnaturally colored hair and tempting green eyes.
My elegant features that people assume make me think I am better than anyone else, but I know that I am not.
I do not see the girl in the mirror as beautiful, there is nothing remotely alluring about her--
If there was I would wipe away that feature with a quick slice of the knife or the razor.
I do not want to be taken seriously about how I look, my head will get too big and then probably fall right off my shoulders and go smashing through the floor.
And I can't count of men smacking my ass, if I can't count on being called a show pony because I have smarts and talents all with this beauty I have been cursed to bear.
Yes I know, if I so hate people looking at my body then why do I flaunt it, why do I wear too high skirts, to low shirts, to revealing clothes that would make the gentlemen blush and the ladies in high collars and too many petticoats to count gasp in digust.
Oh yes my tattered dressed and my brightly colored stockings, my dark make-up and my pale complexion.
My small figure that the corset can fit perfectly around, what wrong with me--
I must be too skinny, is that why these women try to get me too eat more or are they just jealous of my very thin-ness that they have to make it into something being wrong with me.
But I did not ask to look like this, and I did not ask for your husbands to look at me you cold, sniveling women.
Or your wives to flirt with me either, you stone heart, filthy mongrel that call yourselves men.
I did not ask for these men and women to look at me, to flirt and to smile--
I did nothing but look the way I want to look with the body and features that I was given by God.
Such a pretty, pretty little thing.
Don't hate me because I smile and I get free drinks, that people offer me rides and that men follow me in the dark alleys at night.
Don't hate me because even with bright colored hair and clothes one would wear to a custome ball I am still looked at with praise.
Do not hate me for my beauty and do not envy my please--
I do not wish for you to be gawked at when you walk down the street in a too short of a skirt.
I do not wish for you to be offered drinks and escorted to bars and diners by men who only wish to catch you in their web and drink the innocence from your veins.
I do not wish for you to be that iconic image, that men see and think that it is alright to smack your ass calling you "doll" or "baby".
Some pathetic moniker of trying to claim as their property and only to pass around what you do, how you act, and what you're like to their friends as if you are nothing but then a new toy to brag about.
I do not want you to have that fate my dears, you ones that are green with envy for the beauty that I was born to have.
And no I am stuck up, I am not egotistic at all costs, I hate the way I look and do not see what all of you people most see.
I am nothing to myself, but a joke-- a pathetic joke to laugh at.
I am a talented and truthful mind that had danced with the devil because of the beauty I was cursed to hold.
I am not beautiful with vain though.
I know that I am not perfect, I am not an English rose, and I am not someone's girl--
I am nothing to no one, I am not a fool who wishes to have her body put on display for men to put their filthy hands all over so that I do not feel clean anymore.
Is it enough that men have put their hands on my body thinking that they could, that they destroyed me with their touch and left me shaking and bleeding on a dirty floor.
Because I am beautiful, because I am stocking and curl--
Well these looks and torments turned me into a fucking suicide girl!
Oh pretty, pretty broken thing.
For the soft hair that people love to pet, love to touch, love to comb their fingers through.
For the beautiful eyes that with a couple of bats of the lashes have men on their knees, hypnotized by my gaze.
For the perfectly pale skin that makes the slightest compliment noticable with the red blush that stains my marble colored skin.
The slender body that I hide with heavy, baggy clothes so that I may hide my body from the eyes of the men who want to stare and gawk at it.
These men are the ones that follow me around street corners in dark alleys at night, the men who will ask a million times if they can buy me a drink.
These are the men that will do me favors because they like the way I look, eyeing my body as if it were a showcase instead of something important to me.
My smile can turn a grown man tongue tied, it has been that way since I was fourteen sadly.
Men of the older and younger class have tried to persuade me into their cars, into their houses, into their webs, into their lairs and into their beds.
I am blessed with the ability to look this good with my clothes on, I am glad to know that once I have given my soul to these men, they lose my number and don't remember me whatsoever.
I am glad that I my wit and my talents are questioned as being anything extraordinary considering I am nothing but a pretty face.
Thank you for making me a show pony that only thrives on attention even when I am sick and bleeding because I have been hurt, I have been raped, I have been molested, I have been destroyed.
And people wonder why I don't believe in God?
Because God gave me this body, this life, and these hard times--
Gave me your eyes, gave me your attention and gave me your envious glares and your jealousy.
I have worked hard to be where I am today and it is not because I am pretty.
It's because I have had a hard life, from being considered mad as a wild flower to being useful as a door nail, to being as easy as a door mat.
The remarks.
The glances.
The free drinks.
The fabled romances.
The dreams.
The heart breaks.
The lust in their veins.
The smile.
The eyes.
The hair.
The figure.
The pale complexion.
The questions.
The non-beliefs,
The dark alleys.
The forced touch.
The waiting cars.
The predators.
The nightcrawlers.
The stalkers.
The demons.
The reflection.
The mirror.
My fist.
The shattered glass.
My slit wrists.
My face lost in the crowd, of nobodies-- Never to be seen again.
Aren't I just a pretty little thing?
Published 5th Sep 2011
| Edited 9th Dec 2013
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