Synchronised Crying

I am seduced by performative female friendships.

Synchronised crying,

secrets are currency.

Group bathroom trips,

beckoned with urgency.

“She’s crying” they whisper

in unison, a symphony.

Rejoicing in feeling needed,

as if our lives’ mission is to provide sympathy.

Our tear stained faces are inclusive tattoos,

branding us as a ‘we’, no me, no you.

Identity is lost, instead the ‘group’ is gospel,

No one feels quite safe, yet we are each an apostle

for this particular brand of clique,

this prison of our own creation.

Divergence from the moulds we formed

is an act of treason, deserving of condemnation.

Yet despite the hypocrisy of this world we designed,

we find security in the identity of being a unit.

We cling on to the thinning ties between us,

no one daring to admit we’d all seen it.

The symptoms of decay,

the warning signs of degradation,

the barely audible screams of a captive

begging to be set free from this desperation.

Eventually one of us succeeds in our escape,

The ones left behind reeling from the betrayal.

As time passes, it becomes a story we tell,

just part of the history of this empire that fell.

I am addicted to performative female friendships.

hey! i'm an 21 year old medical student (currently intercalating in anthropology) living it up in east london! i spend my spare time playing dixie chicks on guitar (badly), attempting to do yoga and turning it up at my church.

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