The house is on fire. Stale hair from over-processed
Aerosol-soaked curls smell worse than the smoke. 
I’m losing patience with each person, crowding the exit
They push me to the ground, pretend my body is not a body
Just means of scaling the lattice; I imagine it now, what they see
A wilted pink rose that needs clipped from the heard
To keep the allure of collective perfection.
The truth is, the house is on fire
But flames rage only in my mind. With each catty remark – kindling,
Destined to relive these taunts, whispers in my ear –
Burning my belly, 
She’s not good enough
Flames growing higher and higher
I never stand up for myself.
I just let things burn.