Prom Night.

I write about happy things sometimes. This isn’t one of those times.

To anyone who has had an experience like this, of innocence destroyed, I am profoundly sorry. First that you have had the experience, and doubly so that I now bring that experience back to you.

The Prom… the highlight of a young girl’s high school life. The one night where no expense will be spared on looking beautiful. Everything must be perfect. Hair. Nails. Makeup. Jewelry. The dress alone can take months to find the perfect one. Appointments for the hair and nails and makeup are made weeks in advance, for the day of. It’s an all day affair to get prepared for the night. One night. One single night, of glamour, of beauty, of all eyes on her, of chivalry, of everything a princess wants. That is what the Prom is supposed to be.

But things aren’t always what they seem…

I wrote this around the time where it seemed to me that every girl I know either was getting raped, or had been raped in the past, and their lives were falling apart.

So, without any further ado, ladies and gentlemen, Prom Night.

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Pretty little porcelain dolls

Nights spent crying in bathroom stalls

Their only friends are plastic walls

With hatred drawn in hasty scrawls

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Beauties, ruffled dresses destroyed

These girls are dead, not overjoyed

Ripped dreams left them with naught but void

This great night, not to be enjoyed

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These heartless and these bastard boys

Tossed them aside like broken toys

They’ve taken from them all their joys

Left them shattered, not making noise

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Boys paid for things to appease them

And called the girls their precious gem

Now those boys want girls to please them

And they have to obey these “men”

.

Their perfect makeup running now

Warm palms are pressed hard to their brow

Their dreams, it seems, are crashing down

Go on with life? They know not how

.

All these girls have got their reasons

Some, their boys have done them treasons,

Others suffered lust’s harsh seasons

Now they cry, cold weeping legions

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They’re hurting now, perhaps for years

The dolls behind those endless tears

Can’t even look into glass mirrors

Tonight they’ve realized their fears

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Finally tears begin to dry

They cannot sit all night and cry

And they return to that same guy

Who hurt them, and they don’t know why.

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This is something that has always hurt me, knowing that girls I care about have been hurt so deeply and so much by another human being. Writing this helped me to express some of that pain, and hopefully it can be of some insight, or use, or something of the sort to someone else. Sorry if it’s brought up any memories.

Thanks for reading.

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