They came to her and said, “congratulations, we’re so proud of you,” wrapped her in their hollow embraces and topped their wish with a parroted eloquent lie, “we always knew you’d make it”.
As their cold embraces dragged her close, her soul withdraws the clutch of their empty words, repelling every one of it.
She smiled, acknowledging their effort, she smiles, cynically, as they confidently own up to their part of her victory.
She thinks of the times she sat alone, crying, hoping she’d get out of it alive.
She thinks of the times she sat alone, a cigaret ashing on her wrist,
overwhelmed by numbness,
unable to cry,
hoping she’d get out of it alive.
She turns to those standing in the corner of the room,
the ones who aren’t rushing to own up to their part,
the few of those who’s soul have dealt with the same demons she did,
the those of whom who kept their souls intact despite the devil himself repetitively poking it, with fire.
She looks at them and smiles, a genuine one this time.
Standing there, were the few who had seen her tears.
The first person to give her a cigaret was standing there in solitude while the ones who judged her for holding one were up close, chanting empty wishes and reciting monologues of the confidence they had in her.
The first, and only, person who held her hair up while she threw up after one too many one night was standing their in solitude while those who were eager to go home and communicate her shameless ways to the rest of the world were up close, chanting empty wishes and reciting monologues of the confidence they had in her.
She was flawed, gloriously and flamboyantly flawed.
Those long sleepless nights spent alone, questioning every single breath, sinking with every sigh, she had a packet of cigarets and a half a shot of vodka keeping her company in the place of those who were so confident about her seemingly inevitable success.
They boasted about her flaws, absorbed in a deep sea of oblivion when it comes to her struggles. And yet, they were all here. The same soulless skeletons, with a different smile plastered across their faces. Eager, ever so eager to tell the world how they were co confident that she would succeed. They’re eager to tell their friends, and friends of friends, about how she made it – the same ones to whom they told the tale of how she was a disaster of incomprehensible proportions.
she walks passing them,
tuning off their empty chants,
she walks to the corner,
the corner where the rest of the “flawed” are standing.
They are standing in the corner,
with a silent song of pride painted across their face
and a smile of affirmation in their eye.
She walks to the corner,
the corner where the rest of the “flawed” are standing,
and she knows she belongs.