growth
Snake Sarah Johnson She was foolish and fell, fell for one who cared nothing for her. She gave him every waking moment, every thought and every word. Late nights lit by a glowing screen, waiting for a text back; shy smiles in the hall, lingering, waiting for him to notice her. He was her whole world, She was his conquest. She trusted him until he took everything from her, used her, emptied her of her soul, of her safety, of any trust she had left for men. When she put her clothes back on, she forged her battle armor: scales to protect, venom to defend, a steely gaze to separate her from the rest of the gullible ones. Unapproachable and safe. Her black nail polish glinted like scales. Her words dripped with venom. Her eyes froze those in her path. The boys called her a snake, words that hit her leather jacket and rolled off, but some got stuck in her scales, wedged their way in like maggots. She answered their catcalls with a rigid finger straight to the sky, as small as her self-confidence, as unmoving as the wall around her heart. They said she should be nicer to the “good boys,� smile more, lose the tight pants, she was asking for trouble. Look happier, look like a girl.
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