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
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.