(This. Is. So. Hard.)
Ten years ago next week, a seventeen year old girl who loved musicians and melodrama lay on her bed under her green-and-pink The Queen Is Dead poster and put pen to paper to pour out her broken heart*. This (gulp) is what she wrote. If it proves anything, it's that there is no statute of limitations on the embarrassment of bad teenage poetry. 'Cause I'm dying right now. Dying.
*I'm high on the pleasant distancing effect of the third person.
Unchanged, unedited (obvs):
"Cobain"
By Lindsay Robertson
Oh denial and wisps of blond
with a sneer you bewitched the moving horde
proving sweat and blood to so many
tumbling lemmings with screams and sighs
You forced yourself upon the world
that delicate cruel thing that never loved you
Until it succumbed to your denied beguiling
and pressing, pressing
But having found yourself with an adoring fool
you tossed her aside
And you whispered:
"Nevermind."
April 16, 1994
I just hope that this brought you the joy that can only come from laughing at teenage drama queens who project their own high school soap operas onto public figures through nonsensical verse. It's a...very specific kind of joy, but I think I've cornered the market. But we all knew that girl, right?
Oh, and maybe someday if I get even braver and more masochistic, I'll post the poem I wrote when I lost my virginity. (So much blood-on-wedding-dress-imagery hottness!)
(I feel so vulnerable right now. Hold me and tell me I'm smart.)
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