[14] - monday's child.

「 the testament. 」

who's afraid of little old me? ,  ᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛ.

they tore me to shreds til they could find another toy,

dragged my name through the gutter because i liked a boy.

drew gashes on my back but smiled to my face,

clawed and mangled my ribbons and lace.

their grip on school society was an iron vice,

they cheated the system because they acted nice.

vipers slither out and poison your ankles,

their merciless taunts are my cold steel shackles.

plastered slurs and insults on my skin,

publicised my troubled waters and buried sins.

the fresh Mary Sue who replaced the skeleton,

yet the other woman who had loved too young.

they act like they know everything's whole story,

when they know nothing and nothing's glory.

you plead innocent, but where's the proof?

i died on the pedestal, no one else knew the truth.

they beg for their context but shut out your testimony,

no one's word is true but theirs and theirs only.

they'll do it to you, but you can't do it to them,

you'll be crucified but they can never be condemned.

the lines between a joke and insult gradually obscure,

sorries will be said but you can never be too sure.

void of sincerity, drowning in two faced connotations,

masking innuendos in unsuspecting conversations.

words can't bring justice to my anguish and torment,

i've deleted all the letters and notes i never sent.

despite it all, the authority i respected and revered,

moved not an inch even when all my heartstrings had severed.

my heart bleeds because i loved this place so damn much,

yet at my unjust persecution they did nothing but watch.

my teeth were taken out, they sewed shut my eyes and mouth,

isn't that beyond reason and investigation proof enough?

an empty promise for reformation fulfilled late,

i was long gone when they sealed my oppressors' fates.

they watched a star rise, but never noticed her die.

only when the ashes had cleared, did they ever wonder why.

have you forgotten who caused my hurt and my tears?

i am who i am because of what you've done to me.

the only thing that bleeds the wound even more,

is knowing my executioners were also my creators.

you nurtured a talented mind only to drive her insane,

you used her words and her voice for your glory and fame.

who would think that the saviour would ever need saving?

somebody who opposes your habit of not seeing or caring.

i'll be noticed when i'm gone, remembered when i'm forgotten.

not a soul knew me when i was a brilliance among men,

nor when my heart screamed agonies through a pen.

i've fought to my death with their guns against my sword;

in the end, the story still ends with a lone soldier's unrhymed last words:

all of this, and for what?