to the stupid little girls,

Stupid girl,
broken child.

Tell them how you cried when the cracks in your soul spread deeper,
when the broken dreams lay like so many shards of glass on the floor, cutting your feet bloody as you tried to stumble past them.

Tell them how you didn’t learn from your frustration,
your shattered expectations;
from the fury you unleashed upon yourself.

The little girl who ate her lunch in the bathroom in middle school grows up to be the girl who seems lost in the middle of her colleagues as they crack a joke; eyes so far away, heart so distant from all the laughter.

“When is daddy coming home?”

The 7 year old who used to bounce around the house with gleeful delight when he pulled up in the garage grew up to wonder if her father will ever call her as she was going off to college.

Fall and rise.

Sink and drown and rise.

She’ll rise every time, no matter what, because she might be stupid but she has never been weak.

Her eyes might be bloodshot but they still dream.

Broken she may be from all her falls, but she’ll rise again – like Rome, from her own ashes,
because the stupid little girls are the strongest of them all.

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