I am genuine. I am a facade.

Either that or the immanentity of a future more wise young woman in a shell that I cannot be contained within..

Nothing but a poets heart she once wrote. Nothing but a softly wilted peddle on the flower of life.

Maybe one day I'll allow myself to envelope the shine that falls upon my chest, the impotent soul that once reside there. I have placed my roots in soil that has once poisoned me, caused me to nearly die, I lay victim to bend and break with the stability it failed to provide.

I had begun to grow tired of his imperious demands, the redundant, callus bereavement.

Not once was I able to choose my direction of growth, nor the feild I was fertilized. In a sense I have grown in the direction that all beautiful flowers have been asked, towards the light. Towards the nurturing, warmth. The light that causes me to dehydrate, wilt and decay...

We will never run out of metaphors my gaudy peers.

But forget all that I have said, as to you, it is nothing but an idiom.

We are not given the time to let anyone in fully. I'd hate to say this.. but perhaps that is what makes life so beautiful. The mysterious feeling of projecting what others see. And knowing the difference. I am genuine. I am a facade. As are you.