Again, she trips over her shoe laces

To hear the horrible, mocking laughter

To know that it is directed at her

She looks at her laces

And sees a necklace

Slowly tightening its grip around her throat

The Inspiration Room

She looks up and sees the cruel faces

Of her executioners

Of the ones who drive her to the post

She catches snatches of people’s talks

Talks in which the weirdo is her

Talks which inflict her body with a thousand wounds

Talks which tear her life apart.

Everyday, she drowns in torrent of words,

A heavy onslaught of ugly, twisted, horrendous words

That girl is me.