The Girl

She is a bit messy, says the dirty dishes on the desk.

Though, she isn’t uncaring, says the stuffed animals on the bed, each one purposely upright.

She has many hobbies, says the guitar hung in the corner of the room, and the beads in the drawer.

Though, they don’t distract from negativity, says the unfolded laundry from two weeks ago.

Old habits die hard, says last night's uneaten dinner.

This is something taught, says the lazily thrown pillows across the floor in her moms room.

She isn't the only one who’s messy, says the rugs that haven’t been vacuumed in a while.

Nobody knows to apologize, says the IOU’s sloppily written, magnetized to the fridge.

It isn’t her fault, says the disheveled house that nobody cleans.

Eager to throw away their lives, says the parents ashtrays, filled to the brim with cigarettes.

She is uninspired, says the untuned strings on her guitar, and the dust resting on it.

She is just lazy, says the dented mattress, still warm from hours of rotting in bed.

She looks weird, says the makeup, crusted off of her face.

She won't amount to much, says her wobbly knees, painted with bruises.

She costs too much, says the accidental broken furniture.

She can’t be fixed, says herself.