The words dripped off her tongue like a waterfall cascaded to the ears of others and lingering long after her death. The body of her soul crumbling beneath disdain, her body shamed in name, stung by the nettles of a tongue. The consequences tramatically applied, her panic painfully denied alone with the tears she cried.
Buried deep beneath the core of her earth she kept the scars of hers, it was the truth that set you free or was it the truth that hurts.
Grown women tormented by her face, behind back they gossip and trace. Void of their own disgrace they select a new face to slander, hiding their own disasters. No one needs to know their secrets or their faults discussion is reserved for those they desire to distort. Escorts, theives, Hoes and Hustlers reclaim their platter with cleaner slates; Nun and Pastors anything that can erase their faulty slates.
Their judgement spread in whispers while shining their gold that hardly glistens they bury the undead. Wagging tongues, accusing eyes and destroying lives they have forgotten they too have stories they survived.
An although her history tainted by lies and the future hard to devise, each step a milestone; proof she survived. Ashes beneath her feet, life at her side she still writes the story of the girl who survived. The venom of tongues and the whispers she can’t forget will be fuel for strength she cannot regret.