She’s that girl you didn’t quite know was a girl because of the hard shell, the dirt and grime caked on top of the shame instilled by venomous vixens and perilous perpetrators looming in the distance and yet, ever so present. She’s that girl you didn’t realize was crying because the salt was hard against her thick skin, prepared to fight and hate and wait and hope and succumb under the gun of pressure set forth by villainous harems of soothsayers. She’s that girl you wouldn’t miss upon her deathbed because she kept trying but never really got the whole dead thing down pact. She’s that girl you wouldn’t assume prayed to God for salvation behind an orange recliner so the screaming, beating, seething, bleeding would stop. She’s that girl you would laugh at for her imperfections and all the while she thought, “I’d be pretty if I had money to show it,” but she didn’t because poverty lived on the vines of disgrace, which strangled her as she sat in the back of the classroom hoping to not be seen for her stains but damn she wanted to raise her hand because she knew the answer.
She’s that girl who said yes when she meant no because being close was better than being unwanted. She’s that girl who wanted to be a banana and peel away the skin to show something else since she was dark but not hard enough and light but not dainty enough. She’s that girl who wanted to disappear and hit a reset button so she could start all over and do it all differently. She’s that girl who would mute herself for years, convinced she had demons that possessed her because that’s what the woman said and that’s why they beat her with that damn whip. She’s that girl that can relive the trauma because she knows how to deal and she’d rather take a punch to the face than to be told she’s not good enough…again.
She’s that girl you think is confidant and secure and certain of what the hell she’s doing with her life but she’s really just guessing and cries every time she looks in the mirror and once attempted to cut away her full lips and considered slicing through her breasts so there would be no choice but to fix them and maybe they could add a pound or two but only after she lost some via her throat in a bathroom while everyone slept because purging in an outhouse made more sense than actually having the will power to not binge in the first place.
She’s that girl who prayed for death and stopped believing in God when he wouldn’t take her away. Not because she didn’t believe but because she thought he was punishing her by leaving her behind. “Take me to a better place, Lord. I’ll do anything you ask. Save me. From myself.” Because she was poisoned before she left the womb and how do you accept what you are if you are so easily hated by those who should have felt otherwise.
She’s that child that needed to be smart because beauty eluded her and somehow she turned into that average adult that people wanted to touch but never feel, a secret, a mistake, a regret, a “maybe I can have you on the side until something better, paler, prettier, funnier, nicer, more acceptable comes along.”
She’s that bitch. A pit bull you made assumptions about and fueled until she lashed out and then said “I told you so.” She’s that chick that hides behind the brick wall because there had never been a strong foundation that lasted, that didn’t have motives, that didn’t have ill intent. Mortar and stone to block out the sun that will scorch her fragile vessel. But they assume she’s something tough, something to fear while she feels like a dying bird in a cage, shivering with broken wings, caked in mud and bodily fluids.
She’s that thing that’s unbelievable because she’s inconceivable.
She’s that woman who will run from all that is good because she’s convinced she is a curse set upon this earth and yet she silently hopes she will fall in the mist and loving hands will touch down and lift her from murky memories into brighter, promising days. But she runs because reality says things like that don’t happen to people like us.
People like us…
people like us…
people like me.