Society Girl

by Rachel M. 4 months ago in slam poetry

A Feminist Poem

Society Girl

Ever since Mary Magdalene

cleaned our clocks

to make us forget our inner Eve

we still wonder who is most notably sitting on the sideline through a

worthier sacrifice

I seem to have the damndest time

painting who this society girl archetype

that I never seem to be cut in the right mold to fit.

I can't seem to picture her without striking the wrong tone of banality.

You said I wasn't a society girl

and therefore could not would not be your girl.

So as you continues to sniff through the diamond bags of sorority girl

starlets,

let me just sit and mull over what this precisely means.

Let me get this straight.

She doesn't for the life of her cuss when you grab her chest as

if it it was a five star dinner he paid every valid dollar for,

although it is likely

he charged it to an expense account

with a frat boy loyalty reward program.

Most of us non-society girls do not qualify for such entitlements.

Let me get this straight.

She doesn't feed on you the way I do

when it's the only way to shut your suicidal meanderings in the night

that if I don't allow you to expand your horizons with other women,

you cannot truly come to fully respect

and "deserve" me the way I want you to.

Let me get this straight,

she finds that size zero dolce and gabbana that she wears

when she is by his side

doesn't cut off her circulation

as he takes his time posing for pictures

to find your "good" light beside and around her.

Let me get this straight.

All those designer degrees on her wall

must mean that she has found the cure

for your mysoginistic trophy girl spinning cancer, right?

Bet she can't draw the quickness of the heart that birthed you.

The one that expected you to be a man

before you even knew what that meant.

The one that doesn't just politely smile at your "boys will be boys" antics.

The stiltedness. . .

The listnessness. . .

A filtered press. . .

of understanding. . .

You bath in the vanity of believing that girls like us have it coming to us.

You're so special. . .

You're so precious. . .

Not at all vicious

to the ones that warned you. . .

Don't you know

that I'm a voyeur's dream?

I've only learned to heed your call

but found no way to leave?

Or was it just me?

the likes of me?

A dirty girl like me?

The side of me

no one but you could ever see?

You're so privileged

to see my worst but not be on the receiving end of your best.

Why?

What do I lack

Do you have the knack of luring him

to your densely lit crack?

What would it have meant

to bear the armor

of your lovee

instead of the brunt of your

"it's just you" vibe.

You could run into the night.

Pretend you won't lose her in flight

or watch the breadeth

of my eyes

and the thousand stories I sell in the light

There are no words for her to say.

not even,

"I told you so"

when she found herself

slaying the fires

he lit to my ground.

My heart sinks a little lower

a little slower.

a sadness

that he hasn't learned more

in that golden tower.

But I see myself in her

even if the thought of it crawls beneath your veins.

You believe to inflict an unbridled one upmanship between the two of us

so that looking back

she only reflects the affirming voice

you could never be for me.

My words ring loud.

My words ring clear.

I am no one's

second hand tier.

slam poetry
Rachel M.
Rachel M.
Read next: Poem: New Life
Rachel M.

See all posts by Rachel M.