Little Girls Won't Always Dream of Roses.

I may be young but I grow so tired.
Tired from covering up tears with laughter.
Tired from pretending to be a pretty girl.
The mirror jeers that I tend to disappoint.
And I agree.
So I'll go to school
just like you want me to,
but in my head
I'm still in my room
with no one around.
Here is where I sit,
cradling the mask I wear.
Listen to the stories it whispers
through the cracks in the wood.
Hear it sing.
The perfect disguise
of mock confidence,
hiding bare skin
and scars
and fears.
It desperately pleads
to be part of the conversation,
but nobody hears
the quiet voice
in the corner
of an empty room.
For now,
no one will listen to the thoughts
that ramble on in my head,
so instead I read my poems to the stars.
Despite cold sweatshirt days and nights
I can sit on my patio
and make wishes on the moon
because nobody else will.
I like to dream
that angels will come down
from that very same moon
and run away with me.
To a place where everyone laughs
but never at each other
and where the only empty chair
is the one that has been waiting for me.
A room where pianos play themselves
and physics is just a storybook
written by a madman.
And the madman himself is standing beside me.
I think I love him,
so I am mad as well.
But these thoughts are always girlish daydreams,
and only pretty girls
can dream of roses.
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So I wrote and posted this pretty late at night a few days ago.
When I reread it I discovered it wasn't as amazing as it sounded when I wrote it and it feels a little awkward but I still like the idea of it... thoughts? 
so yeah
yay