Your whole life was a stage, girls in the wings,

Girls onstage, backstage, hidden from each other,

Then in everybody’s faces, that’s how you profiled

Yourself. Nobody saw the broken immature boy inside.

 

The one that wanted girls to burn for what his parents did.

The one who filled himself up by gutting the girls he seduced.

He tempted them with their own ideas, reinforced their faith,

And as they thought that they’d changed him for good, that they’d

Be the one to make him whole, stepping into a future together,

They couldn’t see that he led them onto the scaffold all alone.

He’d abandon them then and there, with a good conscience.

 

Done and dusted, those girls’ sad bodies, there was nothing more to

Plunder and destroy, he had been the one, to massacre their trust

For good, in love, in companionship, in men all together. And he was so

Proud and full of himself. A favour he did for all the men, he thought,

Sure that they were all as rotten and desperate as him. But, you see, the

Ghosts of these girls wouldn’t let go, they’d hold on to life and themselves,

What he thought died with him and his pretentiousness, his misleading

Fairy tales.

 

They had known deep inside of them that they dragged mud inside

Their houses. They knew what he was made of and yes, they followed

Their enamoured hopes and compassion and desires, against their good

Common sense and intuition. They were the ones not fully invested, you’d

Never have thought, but that’s what saved them, slowly, as they burned away,

As their hearts were cut out of their wild chests, they reconnected with their core

Selves that always kept him at bay, ready to throw him off the cliffs.

 

They had to go through it, walk through cobwebs and mirror labyrinths,

Through his chicanery and deliberate circus of antagonism and annihilation.

It had to hurt, travel through their entire bodies, for months, possibly years.

They’d learn to appreciate their own company, realise that their voice had

More weight and power than his. He raised his, just like his fists, but that’s

Not a magic trick. They could do within themselves what he never dared to do.

He wanted to set the world on fire and slaughter the girls in it, he wanted to see

Them fall, into and out of his toxic arms, he never tried to terminate his own

Vicious circles, he never loved himself enough, ransacking terror attracted him more.

 

And they’d find themselves again eventually, never again to be distracted,

Never again to deviate from who they really were and they’d find all the love rooted

Within their own skin that needed no compliments from a clown that ran out of tricks.

woman wearing long sleeved crop top leaning on wall
Photo by Tomaz Barcellos on Pexels.com

 

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