Society's Child

I am society's child. [Cover by @River_Summers]


1. Society's Child

Once upon a time, in a world that looks like yours

there was a girl with

golden hair

that hung like a banner across her back in a

a sea of sandy metal

that whispered across the air

all the untold secrets of the water and the flowers

and their petals

and when she blinked, her eyes were blue

and if you leaned too close you'd

drown in them

like the hags that tumbled down the wells

and shrieked for help

that no one cared about

or didn't hear their voice

or see their

ebony locks trailing like abandoned sea weed after them

because they didn't fit into the space the puzzle maker had carved

and couldn't conquer the tedium of difference

and the girl was tugged by hand to go to Church

and her prayers were secret treasures

that trickled from her lips

and tasted like righteousness

each word more crystal than the last

soaked in honey at the tip

and smothered in wonder and glory

and the days as they passed

and they never mentioned the girls she teased

that wore headscarves

or bindis

that she'd printed with the colours of endless torment

in hues of cheerless and agony

and the girls never told her that

if they took them off

like she begged them to

with hateful laughter thrown in aplenty

they'd have to show her how much more pain

her jeering caused them

and the girl made mockeries of the unconventional

but that was okay because

everyone did

their eyes creasing up into slits of derision

in universal agreement

skidding past the true

whims of their heart and growing to

resent them

and the eccentric pressed themselves carefully

into the mould of society's

baking tray

 their souls thrashing out in pain and hatred

as they compressed their emotions

and intelligence

and the beauty they found in the strangest of things

into the shell that had been vacated for them

when its previous owner had shrivelled up

and given in

and died

and all the way through life, the girl was beautiful

but she still  blew char

over her eyelashes

and stained her lips the post-box red that's found in

first kisses and

poetry and

scrawled crayoned hearts and

fading wishes

and she made fun of the red that pulsed

in the form of acne on

her classmates' faces

growing their hair out long to cover their pain

until no one could see their shame

and pouring their money into

the collection tins of mass chain stores

of cream and gloop and products

until their faces were marred by make-up

until their mothers didn't recognise them anymore

and they cried

and the girl was thinner and happier than anyone

 but because it amused her

her wrists were slit

so her peers doled out their sympathy

and held battles over

who could make her smile first

and she fasted to become thinner

and she collected

four leaf clovers

and her classmates ignored the tender puckered skin

of the children that hacked at

their flesh and

tried to hide it alongside their hurt

and she cackled at the ribs

that seemed to try and burst from their flesh

like hungry mouths were trying to eat

them from the inside out

and they collected things because they feared

what would happen if they didn't

because that was OCD

and when the girl grew up, she married a boy

and he was tall and

his hair was night

and he was handsome in the conventional way that was accepted

perfect match

the paradisiacal sight of

dainty damsel clutching the arm of the

kind of man she'd read about in books

 she'd been infatuated with him

before they'd met

and the boys who fell in love with each other were outcast and spat on

their hearts torn into tatters and shredded in machines

by the people who thought they could decide for them

that if they didn't love girls then they'd love no one at all

because in the fairy tales they'd read as young children

they learnt that

prince = princess

and the prince never runs away with the woodcutter

because where would the princess be then?


and the girl still lives on today, in a world that looks like yours

her words a deadly poison

reaping and bleeding

crushing her prey between two fingers

and showing songs to the ears of the impressionable,  young or old

sowing seeds in their brains

that blossom in their hearts

and she is beautiful

and she is terrible

and she is nameless but for the title of

Society’s own child

and she is blameless

for it is the parent

at fault.









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