I found the pretty blue pen, which hides pretty dark things in pretty mediocre blue font. My pretty blue eyes hiding pretty blue lies with my pretty little smile that is shown everyone once in a while. Pretty lucky to be seen as so dang pretty. I should be pretty grateful for my pale skin and Barbie doll blonde hair. Perfectly shaded pink lips, but I have always hated perfection. So I bite them until pain screams in red. Pretty little white girl with the bleeding lip, with the bleeding heart, and with the bleeding soul. My blood drips from my eyes in clear drops. It vaporizes in my lungs, then leaves my mouth. My pretty little mouth. Good for one thing so down on my knees to satisfy his needs. He tells me I am pretty, so I must be pretty grateful. Pretty meaningful because the words of a man have always been made to determine a woman’s worth. A pretty world were being pretty is pretty much everything. So thank fucking God he thinks I’m pretty. Because if I wasn’t I’d be pretty useless and pretty ignored. Pretty unsuccessful in a world where looks are the only way to climb ladders except one. If I weren’t pretty I’d be pretty torn up in my head from the lack of value, which should have been found on my skin. But it wasn’t my skin. It was never my skin. Never me. If I weren’t pretty I probably hate myself. Probably be pretty suicidal. Probably be climbing that one ladder I can touch with my unwanted skin. A ladder up to the heavens gates. The only place where my unpretty might be accepted. Might. Might not. Maybe God himself would look at my pretty ugly face and send me down. Down to hell. Where my skin would burn off my bones and then I would finally be the same as everyone else. The pretty unperfect people. The pretty accepted people. Hell, the only place where an ugly person may belong.