Poem, Poetry

Ellen Taggert

The Girl Museum

They walk past us in rows;
raise your arm,
moan,
yes, they like that pose.
We are paper girls,
soft and malleable.
We are wooden girls,
we will do as you please.
I am made of soft earth
that parts and folds,
shifting rivulets of sand;
you like it when I bend.
But, you do not like:
when I hammer on the glass,
with fists that are angry missiles of discontent.
You do not like:
when we dig sharp nails into our cheeks,
drawing blood,
painting ourselves with battle scars.
Our twisted faces are more honest than our painted counterparts;
but honesty isn’t what you came here for.
A bit of me crumbles
and you call it wear and tear.

Ellen Taggart is a writer born to Northern Irish parents in Cape Town, South Africa. She primarily writes fiction bordering on the magical and/or speculative, as well as creative nonfiction and poetry. She recently graduated with a First-Class Honours in History from the University of London and her studies in feminism, race and sexuality play a significant role in her writing. She can be found at www.scrivenbooks.wordpress.com.

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