She puts her sorrows with her enemies. Closer than the friends with happiness.
She drinks away the pain and drenches the pages of her story in vodka.
She thrives on the burn going down her throat.
Drop
by
drop
until she’s finally numb.
She no longer feels joy. It comes with blocking out the pain.
Because without that pain you would never know what it’s like to experience joy.
One cigarette after the other she hears less and less.
No more lyrics from her favorite songs. But she hears no more harsh words of society.
A shot an hour and she sees nothing.
No more lilacs to entice her eyes. None of the wretched realities of life either.
You see, people like her come across weak. Perhaps you are correct in making this assumption. But she was tough enough to recognize the hatred in the first place.
She was tough enough to feel the pain of it all.
Tough enough to hear their cry.
Tough enough to see the hurt.
And smart enough to figure out a solution to it all.