Mommy and Daddy told me to be a nice girl.
Nice girls don’t talk back.
Nice girls aren’t rude.
Nice girls don’t get mad.

Mad.
This silence is driving me into a self-eating,
self-destroying madness.
Mad.
It’s something I’m not allowed to be,
so I stew in silence.

In the silence I create
when I don’t use my words
to tell him
I’m a little hurt.
A little angry.
A little disappointed
that he tries to keep me in this bubble
away from the world.
Trimming my wings
until I no longer fly,
forget how to fly,
forget I could fly.

His tendrils of reassurance wrap around me
tainting me
with each warm embrace we take.
Little does he know,
I’m not a nice girl.

Cause Mommy and Daddy,
they taught me well,
Nice girls don’t
hide things.
Nice girls don’t
tell lies.
Nice girls don’t
complain.

So my chin is forced
high as things
get uncomfortable.
My lips are closed tight
preventing all thoughts from
leaking out.
And a smile is plastered over the
real expressions of my face.
Cause if you’re a nice girl,
Mommy and Daddy always said
everything will be
OK.

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