sad girl’s society (a poem)

The “Sad Girl’s Society…” or also known as…

“Depot of Damsels Destressing over Dreams!” and,

“Society of Saturated Sinners” or sluts with unsewn seams and,

“Paintings praying” or prudes braying and,

“Alabaster brides!”

for the would to wed,

for monsters at the bottom of bottles to bed

 

They whisper about the Sad Girl’s Society

like we’re saturated sinners simmering in our own sugar,

that we perform magic tricks

with batting eyelashes and lit matchsticks.  

 

They paint crimson numbers and names on our riddle cut skin

as ranks in their own games,

but it’s all fun and games, of course.

We only exist for show,

as roses tramples on a floor of paper.

We’re but wishing wells for princes to drop their passion fire,

their ill-timed ire.  

 

They call it a parade,

when to the bathrooms we find ten seconds of sanctuary

in groups of four or more

to leave our joy as smoke in stained mirrors,

and reemerge wearing painkiller smiles.

 

But what we hide is that our nails are chewed raw,

and the broken “girl code of law”

branded on our breasts at 13,

is a banner burned in the alleyway dumpster of disregarded dreams.

 

We hide our ire glowing purple

like bruises we’ve been made to wear as badges.

We hide that we hand out our sorry’s as bandaids,

and our “it’s fine, I’m okay, I’m just tired,”

as the white flag waved.

 

We hide that we find our dreams at the bottom of swimming pools,

that our melodramatic melodies are molded into midnight minuets.

 

What we hide is that to get into the sad girl’s society

you must bring a bottle of lilac tears,

and pose as a liability.  

What we hide is that the truth is we do bleed,

and some wounds take nine years to heal,

and we hate a four plus inch heel,

but dame do we look good!

 

And what we really like is walking up the road to get ice cream

and falling in love with how the saturated sunset will scream.

What we really want is the taste of trust

as something sweet,

and to feel out legs sticking to the car seat.  

 

What we really want is to braid hair

and chase fireflies into the veil of midsummer air,

what we want is to pass oreos in bed

and feel the ache of our ribs

to which laughter has led.  

 

We were born girls with flesh and bone

with brains and beauty,

and yet…

“girl” is the most dangerous name to wear of them all.    

 

image curtsey of pinterest 

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