I'm far beyond reasoning.
I'm far beyond thinking logically.
I'm searching the halls of my highschool
turning my head, darting my eyes, this way and that.
I'm an exaggerated 70s oil painting,
the deer girl kind with tiny curved hoofs at the end of my stumbling legs.
My eye lashes are soaked in black paint.
They're peeking out of my hair. And my limbs, my clothes.
I'm hidden. I'm a walking piece of cheap art.
Unappreciated art. The kind you see hung in kitchens, in motel rooms.
Completely out of place. But a sight to see. You either love it or you hate it, but you can't take your eyes away until it's staring you straight in the face.
Like, almost fake, almost frightening.
My boyfriend noticed and told me to be careful.
Because deer get shot. Deer get killed.
Their throats sliced by hungry hunters,
and their hearts broken,
their hearts cut out.