Stay Insane
She wipes the mud off her face and flashes that quick grin—
jeans worn threadbare at the knee, mascara smeared across her chin.
Her brows need plucking badly, her nails are dull, her skin is plain,
but she talks so fast the whole damn room decides she’s lost her brain.
She tried the gothic look once—couldn’t summon all that black.
The pallor washed her out, so she sent that alt-persona back.
Rock star, preppy chick, the geek with plastic frames:
every trend she touched went dead within a week’s worth of small flames.
I don’t want the magazine girl with her perfect cropped hair,
the high-gloss princess with the coordinated stare.
She’s firefly-chasing, bee-avoiding, burnt grilled cheese and rain—
just do me one last favor, baby, stay insane.
She stares into the mirror, wonders what the hell she sees—
a catalogue of failures squinting back with crossed-up knees.
She stretches out her cheek and pulls her nose clear to the side,
then laughs at the reflection with a self-deprecating pride.
She doesn’t carry fashion brands, don’t know the proper lore,
says she’ll tweet on Tweeter someday just to even up the score.
Bought her sweater at the bargain rack to save a little more
for a weekend road trip somewhere she ain’t ever been before.
Over ramen and some crackers she decides she needs some aid—
good old-fashioned therapy to pull her from afraid.
She feels like some outsider in the glossy magazine,
whispers what is wrong with me when she reads the whole damn scene.
She swears she’ll never fit the mold that society demands
because she likes the dirt that settles underneath her hands.
She cries out, what’s wrong with me, and genuinely can’t see
why she doesn’t care what’s on the mannequin at Penney’s.
So get your head fixed if that’s what you truly need to do,
but don’t let any bastard strip the beauty out of you.
I want the messy dishes and the woman who stays real,
the one who sweats and laughs and knows exactly how I feel.
You think that you need fixing but I can’t see what is broke—
you’re the punchline and the recordteller, the subject and the joke.
So just one favor, darling, while I’ve still got the nerve to explain:
do me this one last favor, honey, and please stay insane.