The Girl of Eighteen
The looking glass had been there for years,
Its foggy glass, a picture of distortment,
Its ghoulish air, had poisoned her,
Trapping within itself, the disfigured girl of eighteen.
She'd been living in that mirror,
A year less than ten,
That glass of judgemental looks and polluted haze,
Had coated her in too strong.
Nobody looked at that disfigured girl of eighteen,
Her breath never mingled with any other.
Her downcast eyes never found another's,
They never even found themselves.
She'd never been good enough,
She'd been their friend,
Then there were the whispers so loud,
She'd begun to call them the gospel.
She'd never giggled at their jokes,
They said she'd grown big for her boots when she spoke up.
They said her clothes made her old and she,
She wasn't cool like them.
Then those whispers became shouts, and she began to pray to them.
Her Mrs. Trunchbull body,
Her golliwog appearance,
Left her eyes hollow and bare.
She'd never got a guy's attention,
Her worth well wasted.
Her smile so ancient.
She'd become barren to life.
But then she took a bullet to the heart and didn't bleed.
Those whispers still shouts, but she'd stopped praying.
The branches of metal encompassed her heart,
And shockwaves rang through her bloodstream.
Her body was no longer Trunchbull's,
The golliwog appearance she now called offensive.
Her body was her own,
And those jokes still didn't make her laugh.
She wasn't good enough for them, it was their loss.
Nobody looked at that girl of eighteen, but she
She was no longer disfigured.
Her breath never mingled with any other,
And it stayed pure of the poisonous air.
Her downcast eyes bore straight through others,
They had found her in the end.
She'd been living in that mirror,
A year less than ten,
But now that glass of judgemental looks and polluted haze,
Was losing the coat that held her in.
The looking glass had been there for years,
Its crystal glass, a picture of clarity,
Its fragrant air now embraced her,
As out walked the girl of eighteen.
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