You smashed disappointment across her cheeks.

Her stomach, the trenches, hope falling off the battlefield.

When you lay eyes on her, you turned away.

A tale told too many times.


There she stood, then, disillusioned, wondering,

Why you found her so abhorrent and unworthy.

She took herself home, like a child awaiting a beating.

On trial, her physique a failure, imperfect.


She embodied judge, jury and executioner, her case lost.

Too fat. Too much make-up. The hair, a mess. Clothes, a shame.

Lacking everything.

She took his facial expression, his mockery home with her.


As a motivation. As the truth. As the set standard.

This boy who has no heart.

This boy who never picked up a book.

This boy who despises girls, collecting their masks.


She lives by the silent codex of boys who are mistaught and who mistreat.

She is too fragmented, too young, to understand that their opinions should be shunned.

That their judgements should not matter, that they are thin air.

That she should have been the one to originate the walk-away,

Holding her own hand and smile in uncorrupted unison.


“Lady Lilith (Study for the Head)” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

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