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Sometimes, they tell me I'm strong, and I laugh.
I'm a strong woman, they say. I'm a strong woman because I keep quiet. Because I don't have black eyes. Because I don't talk about it. I'm so strong! I'm not making anyone uncomfortable! I'm soldiering on! Well done you! Keep your mouth shut, and stop getting us involved in your pity parties! Sure, I'm a strong woman. I'm a strong woman who cries herself to sleep. A strong woman who sometimes wishes she were never born. A strong woman with no plans for the future, no motivation to wake up each morning, and no reason to bother getting out of this hellhole. She screams at her reflection and hurts so badly that her heart aches. Somewhere she read that you could die from a broken heart, and she wondered if that's how she'd go. She could picture it, even; lying on her bed, white pillows stained with black tears and a voice ringing in her head. His voice ringing in her head. But she's a strong woman, so she doesn't tell anyone about the pain inside. If she did, she would be weak. Why did you tell me, I can't do anything, and your drama makes me sick; get on with the day, keep going, and actually *do* something to change your position rather than complaining about it. There are millions of resources, and you're a strong woman.
She's a strong woman.
I'm a strong woman.
I was a strong woman.
I'm not anymore.
Published by Lily Smythe
