Boring girls,
tell pretty lies.
Manipulated-bated breath,
I can only follow along,
dragged behind their sashayed swaggers.
Crystalline eyes follow me,
fractured and broken,
her eyes reflect a pond frozen-over,
the temptation to take a step,
driving me mad.
A contorted “smile”,
that creaked and wrinkled
to my untrained eyes,
tinkling, nauseating “laughter”
that made my hackles rise–
ordinary became rudimentary
before the Big Hand stroked 5.
They tell the pretty ones
to follow the North star,
as did the desperate, unbroken ones
with a language too beautiful and unique
for their awkward tongue.
They are to do as they are told,
rigid and constant
until each breathe is measured with the utmost grace.
She smiles in each and every Polaroid,
yet why did tears run ever so slowly?
Such boring girls that stand in line
dolls, so prime and pretty,
fall tragically like dominos,
one by one,
expressions of terror
identically on each and every pretty face.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 