True beauty lies in the suffering of soul (they say)
Tarnished beyond repair by the touch of fickle fingers
that know exactly where to cut
To sunder the quiet innocence of a little girl
and then hide, in shame, behind society’s polished pretense,
A woman or child? Both?
Bound by the blistering chains of a society
Restricting airflow and assassinating all the colours of life
To, instead, instill conformity, the ‘good wife’,
Thoughts hammered into the minds of girls
Too young to understand the meaning of the word “desirable”
Too busy playing with dolls and pearls
To remember the fear that will seep into their bones in the morning
Dispersing only once their eyes have been laid to rest…
Pick up that Barbie, play with that doll
Stay innocent I beg of the girl in the hall,
The one with the raggedy curls and that Disney costume
Obsessive over books like ‘Room on the Broom’
But of course she doesn’t listen,
overrun by the inclination of becoming something she is not,
Instead chasing paths hidden by a shadow
Unaware of the silhouettes that await her footsteps
Those looking to impede and shatter,
leaving something hollow
A figurine or silhouette
Whose love will they borrow?
The edges of my vision fray, closing in on themselves
Sheathing my spirit in black, in mourning
For the heart I left behind, muted and bruised, a warning
I watch myself from a distance
Retrieving the mask, wearing it well,
Voice quiet now, no fire left to rebel.
For true beauty lies in the suffering of soul
and so I bow, and so I fold.