She was not a shop girl or a schoolgirl

or a rich girl meant to wear pearls.

She was born to a normal mother and father.

She was not catty or horse-faced or bug-eyed,

but she did not have blue eyes and blond curls.

She would never make it as a showgirl,

and she did not go to church every Sunday,

but she had always wanted to sing

with a choir of voices.

She was neither lazy nor weak,

but she was not gifted with industry.

The girl was a bird without wings.

She was yesterday’s girl.

Not a girl for tomorrow.

Poor wounded thing.

She made one mistake

and she wasn’t a girl anymore,

just a cadaver, bloated with bathwater.

What does it matter?

Girlhood is a short and cruel season.

Next year a new girl will crop up in her place.

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