A Little Girl’s Path to Destruction

This poem is incredibly personal to me. It explains why I am the person I am today. Writing this was emotionally draining, and posting it is stressful, still.

That in consideration, I hope you can find some enjoyment in the reading.


A little girl, barely four years old,
So confident and funny,
Loves snakes and lizards,
Could talk about them endlessly.
She hears people talking,
They say that she’s weird,
Obsessive, Unnerving.
She kept her interests to herself.

A little girl, in her first year at school,
Struggled to pronounce the letter ‘Y’.
Her parents joked and teased,
“You yuv your yetters, dont’ you?”.
She wasn’t sure why,
Not at the time,
But she became cautious of her words.
She learned to be self-conscious.

A little girl, about nine years old,
Would mix up letters
When practising reading –
Like all children do.
Her mistakes were mocked,
A joke amongst family,
And she learned not to ask for help.

A little girl, in Year Seven,
Bullied, for being so shy, most likely.
She loved sweets and chocolates,
But hated her ‘friends’,
If she could call them that.
She was unpopular,
The bottom of the heap.

A little girl, aged thirteen,
Told not to eat “so much rubbish”,
She needed to watch her weight,
She won’t be thin forever.
A boy in her English class
Calls her one of the ‘fat girls’,
And from that time onwards,
She learned to hate her body.

She stutters and stammers
Towards her first love,
A tall, sweet boy, of quiet disposition.
Her mind, aged sixteen,
Late to her first kiss,
Thinks it’s forever.

And it isn’t.

He breaks her heart for the very first time,
So she coats herself in makeup
And does things to her hair.
“It’s just a phase”, the adults all cry,
But this phase is what keeps her going.

She starts to lose weight.
She doesn’t notice at first.

Boys take advantage,
They throw her around,
Her body and her mind,
But she feels invigorated again.
She feels wanted again.
Even in her darkest hour,
When she’s scared and defenceless,
Crushed by his weight,
She laments her past, because
“At least someone wants me”.

His rejection starts talk,
And rumours circulate,
But this little girl, aged seventeen,
She rises above them.
With a close group of friends at her side,
Her past mistakes are a couple of jokes,
And she’s relieved she’s still wanted.
She downloads an app to track her weight.

A little girl, aged eighteen,
She’s happy and with a boy she loves,
But she’s so self-conscious,
Although she tries to internalise it.
His sister, his friends, his flatmates,
They’re all so beautiful,
Wealthy and confident,
And she feels inferior,
Lumpy, repulsive,
Taking up too much space.

Three meals,
Two meals,
One meal,
Snacks and coffees in-between.
Several cigarettes and a bottle of wine.
It counts as a diet,
It must count as a diet…
but where are the changes?

No one notices the difference.

A little girl, aged nineteen,
She starts university,
Full of hope and confident.
But another’s scheme to steal him from her,
Her only happiness,
It tears her apart,
But no one believes her.

She gets ill,
Her mind betrays her,
She drops out,
And he admits she was right,
But he was trying to help her.
He promises that things will get better.
He’ll help her find a therapist.

A little girl, aged twenty, now,
She’s still without help,
Two bad therapists later.
She dances now,
She loved her old job,
She hates her new uni
And her hips protrude,
Her ribs are prominent,
And she can’t drink as much as she used to.

Rings slide off her fingers,
Yet still, no one notices.

She battles with panic,
On a bi-weekly basis,
And that’s a good week.

She swallows sertraline
And keeps up the illusion
That she’s relaxed, that she’s fun,
And is confident in herself.
They don’t see scratches from a breakdown gone by,
Or the meals skipped
In thanks to congratulatory hunger.

She doesn’t tell anyone,
She never will.
She maintains that she’s fine,
She always ate earlier,
And the wine is just a bit stronger
Than she’s used to.

A little girl, nearing twenty-one,
Her thighs now touch,
She takes booze by the bottle,
She eats full-size meals again.
She hates it, but what can she do?
There’s no one who gets it,
So, as a last resort,
She writes poems about it.

Dedicated to George, the online friend who gave me a reason to start creating again, and Frankie, because you’re still here and still fighting.

It Started With “Hello” – Spoken Word Piece

So, for the past three months or so, I’ve been trying to write spoken word poetry, after being inspired by the Poetry Slam I watched at WOMAD World of Words. I appreciate that this isn’t the same effect as listening to it (although I may record it at a later date), and that it probably needs a lot of work – I’m still learning!

Another thing I want to mention, because I’m paranoid, is that this is a completely original work, and the only place I’m going to post it) as far as I know, is my Wattpad account (also GoldDustLizzy).

Anyway. This is a poem about love.

It Started With “Hello”

It started with “hello”,
A wave across a room,
A friendly smile,
And a suggestion that we meet for coffee.

He told me that he came from Reading originally,
But grew up in a small town outside of Windsor.
His parents divorced when he was ten,
And his older sister is married with a son.

And he was beautiful.
His eyes were kind,
His face elegantly angled,
And his voice was soft, like an angel’s song.

I asked him out for drinks, but he faltered;
He had plans with another girl.
I guess that’s fair enough –
He was an Adonis.

I asked what she was like,
But he refused to talk.
It doesn’t matter, he said,
They were going for dinner.

The next day, I persisted, and asked him about her.
He seemed more open.
They’d had a fight over…
…lasagne, or something?
He shrugged it off like it was nothing, but I saw my chance.

Their fights continued,
From what I can see.
He’d come in dejected, and I like to think
That seeing me would brighten his day.

He said he’d told her about me, once.
That she hadn’t been happy,
That she’d asked questions,
Interrogated him about me,
And I hope he said good things,
Like he said he did.

One night, he texted me,
Saying she was freaking out…
And could we talk about it tomorrow?
I said, “of course!”.
My face was glowing.

After that night, he was happy to see me.
We got drinks between lectures,
With no faltering this time.
He bought me a rum and coke,
Even though I’d offered to pay for it myself.
Yet, still, he ran back to the other girl.

What did he see in her?
She didn’t make him happy,
That much was clear.
What did she have that I didn’t?

It all made sense, when I met her later.
She was gorgeous.
Long hair, dark eyes, slight frame.
Little pout, shy mannerisms.

But how she shouted!
When she was set off, the heavens would shake.
So much anger in one so small.
Why did he put up with her?

Months into our friendship, he’d confide in me.
Many things would make her angry.
She was constantly distressed, and
I told him she wasn’t worth it, but he denied me.

At least, his words did.

“She hates how I -”
She hates you having fun.
“She hates when you -”
She hates you having a life.
“She hates how I talk about you.”
Because you can talk to me.
“She hates when I see you.”
She hates you having friends who aren’t her.

It was me he could trust,
Me he could confide in.
But she tied him down,
His freedom was compromised
As long as she was there.

I yearned for the day
When he’d finally realise
That she really wasn’t worth his commitment.
She’d never give him what he wished for.

I could.
I really could.
If only he’d see that.
If only, if only, if only…

Then, one night.

One strange, wonderful night,

He kissed me.

His lips were soft and sweet,
Like cotton candy,
To be cliched.
His touch was desperate,
Clawing for affection
In that dingy nightclub,
Pulling me towards him,
As though he were clinging for his life.

He’d finally realised,
His decision was right.

She’s a problem no more.
A distant memory,
A wall between our love.
A wall which now has crumbled.

He and I were meant to be.
A love which was pure,
A love like no other.
She was just a jealous bitch,
Incapable of realising
That he was better off without her.

She is gone,
Her reign is over.

And, it makes me think:
What is it like,
To be the other girl,
Desperate for affection,
While his solace comes
From the arms of another?

But, never mind.
His choice was made.
A happy three years came to naught.
But, me? I’m fine.
I’ve won.
Now, she’s but a distant dream.
Now, she must realise
That nothing halts a true love’s path.
She gave her life to him,
I know,
But, now, his life is all to me.
I know she’ll find another man,
But at this point,
I couldn’t care less.