Girls

It does you good, girls.

Snap.

You both roll downhill,

discontent only you can resolve,

a return to something-ness.

This hurt, is what you do best,

it is your Will and Testament,

to how good you really were,

when no-one else saw it.

For all the suffering, it serves you nought;

a shell on a china plate,

a nail in the bottom of a can,

tiny rattling, rolling, morsels.

The punch, is a bow down,

It ensures you are the tormentor,

sick , and proud, and remembered.

Redeemed you both sit in silence,

holding the shell in your tiny palm.

Looking down,

curling your hand around the spoils,

being a grateful girl.