eighth

'Twas not included in the seven deadly ones,
but she knew better. There were comparisons.
And they battered her up, they made her bitter
she fell prey to them, those foul sinners.
And she threw that remote, the only pointing knife
to those girls on television. It might as well had been
pointing straight at her, for that's all they'd seen.
pretty faces and straight legs, the only benchmark
that seemed to exist for the person who was stark
naked in persona, staring them in the face
with all her loveliness, fallen from grace.

they'd claimed to never have been exposed
to these sides of her. these people, inside.
but that was their fault, they don't let me be, she claimed.
with a barcode for everything, the speakers take blame.
she's smarter and taller and prettier and popular
and why you're not her
all it did, was bite her.

everything laden with guilt. from roasted almonds
and tv shows and poetry sheets and ice-cream cones
even sticks and stones didn't hurt her bones
this much. her vanity, with no space on the shelf
and worst of all, she losing herself.
midnight wandered in, a typist friend
both befriended, both at wits end

solace was talking, cool air listening
and the letters that were the only things
around her that weren't falling apart.
because she wasn't looking at what she'd got
she'd learnt to view only everything she was not.

escape forbidden, and tantrums made way
for less tiresome ways to crust-cover her day
parched glands, emotional hands
and the distant dream, of a fabulous
life, just like she'd seen
and pray
that it'd stay.

Smile, and the world smiles with you.
Cry, and someone might empathise on a Blog.