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Closed Doors

By @MeaningfulMee

Closed Doors

Closed Doors

No one will hear you,

They’ll hear your words, maybe.

But never the meaning, 

Between these walls and closed doors you are a clone of perfection or a lesson in why it is important for parents to use contraception,

It’s your choice.

You can choose to be excepted, loved even.

If love is eating disorder culture and air force ones. 

Fake tan and the good old diet,

Replacing your meals with something more productive.

Like putting chap-stick on puckered up lips and ****-shaming the girls with daddy issues and a bust bigger than yours.

Hoping that you will get out of here with a boyfriend, blenched hair and a binge drinking problem.

Note that the boys on offer don’t believe in climate change, equal work results in equal pay either.

The type of boys that think they are the **** cos they can drive a tractor and **** off to a picture of your English teacher in the evenings.

Maybe it’s not all their fault though,

Hey, 

Maybe just maybe there a connection with the amount of skinny blonde female teachers, 

And the sixty-year-old man that hired them,

Then had an affair with most of them.

The boys will talk about getting ********* in class, yelling it from the rooftops but the girls will make code words, a whole new language to ask their closest friends,

Only their closest, 

For a pad.

And that’s if you’re lucky.   

The other girls are crying inside all the time, 

Cos they listened to ana like she was a playlist.

Having their little cousin say their first words to them,

Only then understanding that ana was just victoria secret propaganda.

Only now understanding that malnutrition leads to self-destruction and an inability to have kids.

But Ana just gets louder. 

Other girls are curled up in bed, council flats,

Blood running down their reduction rack Primark pyjamas.

Wondering if her Christmas fluffy socks can improvise as well as her mum can when her little sister asks why the ***** in her class got a bike for Christmas and she only got a pack of jelly tots.

Her mum gets paid at the end of the month and her mum spend their money on food and hospital bills after last months, 

24-hour “last tampon in the pack” incident. 

Unfortunately, mother nature couldn’t wait till the end of the month,

And minimum wage with three kids won’t last till the end of the month. 

That girl knows how long that sock has been sitting in a pile of dust but it’s the only option she’s got. 

When she mentions the issue to the local lads after too many sips of cheap vodka.

They remind her that condoms aren’t free around here,

And she sits back, her voice is not loud enough to mention how sex is a choice, or how it should be, whereas being born with a ****** is not exactly up for decision. 

  

Meanwhile, boys are crying sitting in the girls’ toilets,

Cos “it’s just a phase”, according to their catholic stay at home mother and their work all day, sexually harsh young female co-workers dad.

They have come out of religion class, learning how any page of the bible is worth any old lgbtq+ life.

They might be boys but tell the menstrual cycle that.

Boys who are bullied for getting a pixie cut, but would any day do it all even stronger, 

For them have a body that matched their souls. 

But oh no, it’s still just a phase, 

When a boy is found dead in his bedroom, 

On the 25th, cos he knows what’s going to come on the 26th and he is sick of this ****.

A note in his hands,

Dying wish to have his name, HIS name put on his gravestone.

Watch his dad burn it in a fire of oppression and rosary beads.

Bury his coffin in the graveyard of the church that killed him.

Watch his gravestone have a name more dead then his body engraved on it. 

Meanwhile, the boys that have never experienced oppression,

Talk **** about the girl that one of them got pregnant.

Calling her a **** if she keeps it and a monster if she doesn’t. 

Her family agree with every word they say, 

Seems to forget that an emotional abusive sister can lead to substance abuse. 

Combine that with pre-drinks, a girls night out and a short skirt, you do not and I mean do not get consent. 

But apparently the S.P.H.E teacher forgot to mention that, along with any mention of any form of contraception.

She is scared, 

The country voted “my body, my choice”, but there is not a clinic within a 3-hour radius of her house,

But don’t forget that there is an old mother and baby home just around the corner. 

The school nun wants to reopen it in her honour. 

When the break of class comes along, 

The short boys are trying to do their lockers before the “hard boy” shows up.

Please, the only thing hard about him is his ***** when he watches RuPaul, which is fine.

Though his dad stopped supporting his footy team when one of the players married a male ballet dancer,

So he doesn’t think he can tell him.

His dad hits his mommy and tells him that that’s what a man is. 

He wants to make his daddy feel something he never had before, love and pride.

So that lonely boy pushes any lad that acts “gay” against the lockers. 

To make daddy love him, or the mask he wears. 

And kind of to get closer to the ones he fancies. 

There is a girl who looks in a pretty little mirror, 

There’s and microscopic bump in her ponytail.

Her friends are telling her it’s all fine, they can’t see it.

But she can.

She will take the hairbrush out of her pocket and redo it a million times until she is dizzy from the stress, 

It will still be there though. 

Her mom told her she could never love an ugly daughter and her sister told her she was the ugly daughter.

All she sees is the ugly daughter and she can’t take being the ugly daughter anymore. 

Her hands are shaking all day long just waiting until she gets home, alone.

To eat a whole tub of ice cream, drink salt water, wash the back of her toothbrush and regurgitate that ice cream. 

Hoping that one day she’ll finally be the pretty daughter,

Not caring if that pretty daughter is also the dead daughter. 

Two houses down from her there is a boy,

With his arms around his head. 

Looking down at his mommy’s dead body, 

She took her last hit months ago.

The body is long gone, buried in the dirt near the boy and his dead name, 

But he’s left seeing his mommy’s dead body.

It is an image that he can not erase, like his dad at the funeral comforting his little sister.

Only patting him on the back once, 

Only to tell him in a voice that has been smoking away problems for the past forty years,

“Us big boys don’t cry”.

He nodded along. 

Believing that asking for help is not manly.

He was to first to find her and every night when he closes his eyes, 

He finds her all over again.

But “big boys don’t cry”.

So he sucks it up and wonders down to the kitchen to grab a bottle of whisky and a pack of ****,

Cos big boys numb the pain until they become it.

Become like her dad.

The girl with the new iPhone,

Gucci school bag. 

The girl who doesn’t go to school every day but when she does she shows up in a Volvo.

Posting on SnapChat pictures of her at the nail salon, 

Instead of going to school.

Her nails are almost as fake as her happiness. 

She is the typical daddy’s girl but that daddy’s girl would much prefer to be waiting outside an AA meeting then getting another Volvo cos daddy likes the pub and daddy can’t be asked to at least walk to it and not crush mummy’s car.

Mind you she feels safer when he’s getting ****** at the pub and crashing cars to when he takes his whisky breath into the house when she comes home from school. 

Everyone tells her how lucky she is and she agrees with them in the moment,

None of her fake friends saw the fear in her eyes, the tired look in her mommy’s as daddy finished yet another bottle.

She loves her I’m sorry gifts from daddy but she would trade them for her daddy to be sober any day of the week.

 

The girls in her class say they are depressed when they leave their lunch at home,

Say they have anxiety issues when they get a little stressed about catching the bus into town alone.

She walks away from the convention cos she’s been catching the bus alone since she was ten.

Cos her big sister’s leaving cert results were coming out and it was so much safer to be going up to her nan’s alone, even if she was sitting next to a sixty-year-old man. 

Cos when her sister was not hurting herself she, was hurt her ten-year-old sister cos depression does not have sympathy.

She stared cutting recently and know she can’t wear shorts,

Those girls would be crowding around her.

There is even a voice in her head telling her she is nothing. 

They would take it as their own story but she is not dealing with popularity and attention hunger, she is dealing with sepsis and a voice telling her to end it. 

She is too scared to ask for help, she is in denial. 

Her sister needed help and her sister kicked the **** out of her, 

And she does not want her to try and sympathise now. 

She does not want to be anything like her sister cos her sister was killing her.

The C.S.P.E teacher let the loud-mouthed socialist tell the class about the issues she saw in the world, 

Half of them cried,

The other half was the patriarchy, white middle-class males. 

Telling her to shut up and go to the kitchen. 

She is tough enough to write to the government about the housing crisis,

But if she gets called an angry feminist in a condescending tone one more time she might lose her voice.

Like everyone else in between the walls and the closed doors. 

She is the last man standing, 

Her grammar is poor and that’s all her essay about gun laws will read.

That’s all these walls were made to do. 

She could shout for the silent,

They could shout for each other. 

But between the walls and closed doors, no one will hear,

Not the meaning,

Now not even the words.

Voices aren’t heard between the closed doors of the education system.

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