For all the broken angel dolls.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
When I was little,
I used to own an angel doll.
She was porcelain and perfect,
With beautiful unmarked white wings.
With eyes that reflected the blueness of the sky,
And soft blonde hair that fell in waves down her back,
She was my image of everything right in the world.
That was around the same time period I began to be bullied.
I do not believe there was anything particularly wrong with me.
It maybe was the fact that I was "teacher's pet",
Or that I did not enjoy activities that would get me into trouble.
It was like everyone went out of their way to trip me in the halls,
Or push me against the book cases.
I used to be a cheerleader.
If nice cheerleaders exist,
I have yet to meet one.
I will not lie,
I enjoyed the cheerleading experience.
The energy and endurance cheerleaders have takes practice to master.
But my fun was stomped upon by some girls who would laugh at my choice of clothing.
Yes, my clothing.
It seemed to matter a great deal that I came to practice in a tank top, and grey shorts over grey leggings,
Instead of a cute labeled top and booty shorts with the words "Cutie" on them.
Never mind that I wore unpopular brand sneakers instead of expensive neon high tops.
While my fellow cheer members rocked curly pigtails and bouncy ponytails,
I wore frizzy braids with orange ballies tied at the ends.
And that instead of a glowing, rich, copper colour,
My skin was an ashy pale brown,
With scabs on the knees and claw marks on the calf.
Yes, truly a look destined for disaster.
But that's the great thing about being a child,
You simply didn't find a reason to care.
So, when I had to quit cheerleading because of the bullying,
I received lectures from my mother about not caring about other people's opinions.
The same woman who practically threw a high heel at me because of my stubbornness in refusing to wear such a frilly dress to her sorority meeting.
What some parents fail to realize,
Is that yelling at an 8 year old for crying over mean girls is not helpful.
So when the girls took it upon themselves to follow me around yelling insults,
And gathering in a circle with me in the middle to torment me,
I found quitting the team would do nothing to heal my hurt and anger.
So I ruined my doll.
I chopped of her blonde locks,
And what was left was melted with a flat iron.
I snipped of pieces of her lovely white gown,
So that it looked like one of a mourning ghost woman's.
I destroyed her sky blue eyes with a black sharpie,
Filling her eyes with the darkness of evil hearts.
And her wings,
Her lovely white wings,
I cut those off.
And threw them out the window.
After my episode, I found my doll to disturbing to look at,
So I put her in the trash bin when no one was looking.
To this day, I regret pouring my anger into the poor doll.
But I never forget her.
Because to me, she represented all those tormented, wingless souls,
Who really just don't know where their wings are.
Nobody, is truly wingless.
