Crawls in rhythm, sweats like spring

I've been letting others tell me what to feel.
I've been leading on naive young boys, I have
been allowing pretty girls to stomp on my face,
digging their stilettos into my eye sockets, lying
 in the gutters. I've been lying more
than usual. I have been neglecting my true words,
committing myself to the insane voice I am writing
 or committing myself to the objective,
sugar-coated editorial columns.

I have been allowing myself to be the image of lost,
voiceless girls, who steal all they can. They take my hair,
take my eyes, take my clothing,
and makeup away, take my body away, take all they can yet
still, they are not me. I am still somebody.

I am a "pretentious bitch" by intellect, you just buy the title.
you wear chanel lipstick, get your nails done and pose.
Yet, I am still better than you.
You go home, broken, alone, whored out and puking.
As do I, but I come home to significance. 

I am someone, unlike you.
I have a voice, I have intellect, I have art, you do not.
Your type usually turns me on.
And you have just enough intelligence to grasp this concept,
I hope you cry at night.