The girl had had enough.

The fighting; clawing her way out from behind a face of grasping perfection. Her body was something that was worshiped and criticized till there was nothing left to worship.

So she became addicted to the criticism because in it, she was reminded of the glory days of adoration.

But she was fucking tired.

She had been fighting to know herself since her birth, but constantly fought against the current of sandpaper that claimed it existed to make her smooth, but really it just stung, and she worried about the scars it would leave.

She had been battling with the scrutiny, the rulings over her body; her wages; her cellulite; the bridge of her nose, her nipples, and whether they were dinner-plate sized or tight and perky (this was preferred). So much war around her that she didn’t know what to fight anymore:


Others or Herself.


So she became very quiet. She put her face on, and bled in silence.

She kept telling herself that she was not a whore...a silly thing to employ as consolation when she knew herself to be a Lamb. She developed ways to cope, ways to appease; ways to manipulate from behind her beautiful facade, for she was not allowed to have it out on the battlefield; some might call it kind of sexy, maniacal crazy.


But beneath the god-damned rules, and below her raging hormones, and the drama, and the urge to pull away, which she dutifully resisted, no one could touch her. No one could claim their right to her skin and mind, and in the quiet hours of the night, she knew this to be truth.


So she woke up, and she rose from the trenches of her soft bed, and she put her face on:

her makeup:

her face paint:

her war paint:

her “whore” paint,

as some might call it, their eyes squinting in slits of judgement.

Her battle, she knew, was one that existed outside, but her blade, and white flag, and ammo only existed inside herself: it was indeed a civil war.


She realized her only job was to know when to fight, and when to put her hand up, never in surrender, but in dismissive mockery. She would take back what little of herself that she had, and she would fight for it.


So she looked her opponents straight into the eyes (O so many eyes), and whispered these words: "nanny nanny boo boo."


Categories: interpretations