Pretty Words (Nothing)

I’ve been thinking lately. I don’t have anything (important) to say.
At least I don’t think so. And if everything’s the same
(before and after a poem) then there’s no point, is there?
There’s no point if nothing changes. (Did I change you yet?)
There’s no point in writing it all down if the memory feels like nothing,
(everything feels like nothing), and the worst thing you can do
is fit words together (like enzymes and substrate––
only thing school’s ever done for me) and say nothing at all. Paint pictures
and forget the color. Might as well put on the bathing suit
my mom bought me (watercolor flowers, fake as fuck)
and take pictures, and create nothing but eating disorders
and advertisements, and let people who have things to say
say them. About me. Please. (Am I pretty enough?)
I’m only fourteen. (Excuses, excuses.) But lots of girls who are fourteen
have boyfriends. And take the subway home. And know what being a girl
really is. And have (important) things to say. Things that make changes.
Pretty soon it won’t be impressive. What? Pretty words.
That’s all (I am).