i hope you're not real.

greased, sweat slicked hair put back into the net that holds it captive to keep the dirt from dripping into that of which will soon be devoured.
you're wreaking of fried lard and potato skins and you're covered in everything that is anything with fast food.
you're eyes are caked with a dark, charcoal paste and your lashes primped to look full and chunked. hopefully today someone will notice the effort.
the pollution of your day job has crawled into your pores and shut the door. your skin is damaged; a bumpy road leading to nothing exquisite.
as you stand there flipping patties for just another overweight and unappreciative north american, you realize this is your life.
school is a joke when there's boys to try and please. what can education ever give you? some high numbers on another paper your parents don't care about?
every time you try and focus, there's another vibration of the little devil that you carry around with you everywhere. there's no way that whatever that old hag at the front of the room is blabbing about could ever be as important as whatever was just sent to you. when the day's over you sit and wonder what you were supposed to have done to be productive for the sake of your future. then there's another vibration and all is forgotten.
whatever.
you can just get married to some drug dealer that will be able to buy enough groceries to keep you from dying of starvation. it doesn't matter if he hits you; at least there will be someone out there that you can try and convince yourself cares about you.
oh. there's a bump now. you haven't gotten that gift you normally get and i guess that means something. you haven't been to that health class in so long now, you've forgotten what that means.
yep. there's a bun in there. and not the good kind that you can put butter on, eat, and forget about.
it's that kind of bun that never goes away.
the kind of bun that you have to pay for for the rest of your life.
i guess you see it that way.
i guess somebody noticed the effort you'd put into your caked face-paint that day.
you just wish you could remember which person that was.
there were so many.
too many.
whatever. life is worthless. life is unfair. you're a poor, deep soul lost in a hopeless future caused by a damaged childhood.
no.
you've done it to yourself, but you blame the world for your mistakes. you give up too easy and you're afraid to face yourself. you wallow in your self-caused trauma and you weep for your regrets.
you've been weak. but you can be strong.
you can be so much better. you can do so much better; but i hope you're just words on a paper. i hope you're not real.