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The Girl in Black
Everybody's dressed for the party,
smiles polished, pretty, bright,
then she walks through the doorway
and somehow dims the lights.
A little too loud, a little too gone,
stumbling beneath the stares,
but she couldn't give a damn tonight
let them whisper if they dare.
"She's cold."
"She's strange."
"She's far too much."
"There's something wrong with her."
They turn her scars into a story
and make themselves the narrator.
But she wears black like armour,
keeps thunder in her eyes,
a storm cloud at her shoulder
that she never has to disguise.
They call her difficult,
they call her dark,
too sharp around the edges,
too wild to leave a mark.
Too angry, too broken,
too bitter, too intense
but every name they throw at her
just builds another fence.
She's the girl they talk about
when she leaves the room,
the one they blame for *******
every bit of sunshine's bloom.
But maybe she's not heartless,
maybe she's just learned
that giving everyone her softness
is how she always got burned.
So let them call her bitter.
Let them call her cold.
She's done begging strangers
to understand her soul.
She isn't everyone's sunshine.
She never claimed to be.
She's a little rain, a little thunder,
a little beautifully unruly.
And if her darkness scares them,
if her silence makes them stare,
she won't apologise for shadows
just because they live in there.
So here's to the girl in black,
with the storm beneath her skin
not everyone's cup of sunshine,
and finally okay with it.
Let them whisper.
Let them stare.
She's still standing.
She's still there.
Cold as ice.
Sharp as glass.
Not so nice
and done looking back.
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