The Reconstruction

A Poem by thecreativetigre

I was there when she flew apart

When she became only fragments of the beauty she was before

When they peeled the layers off of her

Like a crawfish

and then popped her into their mouths

Chewing

Until all of her substance fell into the pits of their hallow stomachs

And all that remained of her

Was a hardened exoskeleton

But no more heart full of battered hope

Nothing left worth protecting

They must have been so hungry

The way they devoured everything she was

I was watching as they undid her like a garlic clove but she was not bitter enough

And she was not powerful enough to make their eyes water

To grab them by the throat and choke them on her own fragrant wrath

Her body is thrown across the floor here.

Her essence has been torn apart and shredded.

It is a dark rust color, because she has been deceived, but some of the pieces are still the color she was before.

One arm lies in the left corner of the room, the right leg is hanging from the tree on her front lawn by the crook behind the knee.

Her head has been decapitated. The braids weaved into her skull still crisp. The soul? We are still looking for that.

She is so many girls with hearts so big the world gets jealous

So many girls with dreams heavier than the reality that has been weighed out for them

On that tired, broken down scale of justice

The lady has developed holes in her blindfold you see

And her sword has begun to inch closer and closer to our necks

She has grown a stutter in her palms she can’t seem to control

It’s how the girl became decollated

If you squint for long enough, she can still appear to be in one piece. She can trick you into thinking that she is whole by some magic I cannot explain. That she is not thrown about a room somewhere. That she is not laying in a shallow grave somewhere. That she did not die an early death somewhere but believe me she is not alive.

She is not laughing, she does not smile anymore or sing anymore.

She does not dance anymore. She does not even cry anymore. She does not exist anymore. And that exoskeleton I told you she is now, it moves about a world not knowing whether it will make it until the next moment without that soul we still haven’t found yet.

There have been times before when people have been able to reactivate one emotion. One that brought them back to life, and filled up their empty chests a little.

One that made them passionate again and gave them the will to survive

Made them adamant in their refusal to be taken apart.

It takes away those feelings of damnation, but it is not hope.

It is anger.

It makes you reckless; which has proven to be a good thing. Sometimes.

Are you tired? I ask her sometimes. Because you look it. You are too young to have those bags under your eyes. Too pretty to be so ugly. Your cheeks are too full for you to be so empty.

Don’t be so down child. Don’t be so broken down.

Anger

Lights fires inside of the hearts and souls of girls who have lost their nerve

Anger

Picks up the pieces that have been scattered across this dirty earth

As if they were not holly

As if they were not once living

As if they were not once beautiful, fragile like scar tissue

But willing to be ripped apart again all the same

Anger

Makes you scream at the top of your lungs too tired to care who hears you

or what they think about the sound of your voice gracing the air with Its shrill exhaustion and emotion