Sad Little Stories from Sad Little Girls

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I’ve learned to paint my face,
school my features,

Pretend that
harsh words are still unspoken,
young hearts unbroken,
deep scars are still unshowing,
I’m still unknowing.

Unknowing that
she has spread rumors about me,
he hit me,
they treated me like dirt,
and never really stopped.

Stopped by convention from leaving,
I wonder if they even knew consequences.
They acted without them,
as if the people they hurt weren’t human.

Human. I am human.
Not a china doll,
not a toy,
not made of paper,
not a marionette with strings.

Strings holding me together
broke a long time ago.
I’ve stopped caring.
I’ve learned a lot about ignoring.

Ignoring is something I do well.
Ignore that I’ve been hurt,
buried without a name.

Name is Eleanor Rigby,
I pick up the rice in church after weddings,
keep my face in a jar by the door.
I paint my face,
put on a smile,
play my part,
do the show.

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