• E.M.O. --
    Extremely Morose Opinion
    --------

    A pimple-faced teen plasters her face in makeup.
    Like paper maché being molded into a respectable shape,
    it smears around until blending together
    as she tries to cover what she hates.

    Then to the hairstyle;
    either spiked or over one eye.
    She sits with the hairspray and gel in her hand
    and brushes it one last time.

    Looks like today it's straight up in the air
    ready to launch off her head.
    She takes the stickiness and mushes it in,
    making it look like she just rolled out of bed.

    Now onto clothing for the upcoming school day.
    She shifts through her closet, looking for something to wear.
    She can only find things in black or neon, it seems.
    Well, at least they will match her hair.

    It's been thirty or forty minutes by now
    and my patience is growing thin.
    How many layers does she need on that face?
    What she's doing is ruining her skin.

    But alas, she still sits there,
    adding and adding to the goop that she already has on.
    As every morning, she tells me nothing,
    and starts humming her favorite song.

    It's difficult for her to get out of her throat;
    the chords are much too grating.
    As I wonder if this also applies to the lyrics,
    I see why we have trouble relating.

    She looks so fake, like a porcelain doll
    with paint smeared over her eyes.
    I can picture her, shrunk down, in a window display,
    with a price tag completing her guise.

    She flattens her face for the final time,
    trying to even the gook.
    Then she rushes out the door without a word,
    and doesn't even touch the pancakes I cooked.

    I go to work and stare at my office,
    then open up shop and begin.
    The entire time, I think of her,
    asking myself why I never see her grin.

    That smile she had in her preteen years
    was such an uplifting thing to see.
    Her teeth and her gum showed shamelessly through.
    Back then, she still trusted me.

    I return from work and she isn't home yet.
    Then I remember she met that guy.
    She must be out with him, I think,
    with something less innocent implied.

    I open the fridge and sift through the leftovers.
    Chinese sounds good for tonight.
    I hope she actually comes home this time.
    Sometimes she doesn't, out of spite.

    After an hour, I put the food away,
    starting to get really annoyed.
    But then I get worried and chew on my lip.
    When she's not here, I can feel the void.

    She comes home, hopelessly drunk,
    pleading her case in the dark.
    I swear, sometimes, I wonder what I did
    to make her rebellion so stark.