This is for the girls with the downturned mouths,
the dark patches on their underarms,
the corrugated foreheads and the technicolor brows
This is for the "you'd be pretty if you smiled"-s they receive, unsolicited, on the subway from a stranger bathed in acid
Who looks at them like they're barbecued gold made ready-to-gobble.
This is for the saviour they cry out for
On nights when their bodies don't feel like their own
When that extra french fry
Feels like 1.2 tonnes they'll never be able to shed.
This is for the flowers they pluck
And braid into crowns
Because they're told that's what pretty princesses wear
Even though the flowers wither and die
Just like their fairy tales.
This is for the blood-soaked evenings spent in solace
The curse of Eve
the child they'd never bear
But had to pay recompense for.
This is for the screams, the rapes, the killings, the "had you had too much to drink?"-s, the fingers that point
Always away, always to anyone but