“Porcelain.

Delicate.

Beautiful.

That is what you ought to be.

Repeat after me.”

The mistress chanted

To the group of teens.

“Porcelain.

Delicate.

Beautiful.

That is what we ought to be.

That is what we ought to be.

That is all we ought to be.”

“Good, good” the mistress said.

Nodding her head.

Eyes cold and dead.

“Now what is she?”

Her fingers pointed to the girl.

With the cracked porcelain mask.

She’s no porcelain doll.

If she fails at her task.

“Shame.

Shame.

Shame.”

The girls chanted in unison.

“She’s not porcelain.

She’s not delicate.

She’s not beautiful.”

The mistress smiled.

The kind of smile that was forbidden.

The type to remain hidden.

“Good, good” the mistress said.

“What happens to girls who forget their mask?” she asked.

“Sent back

Shame

Shame”

The girls chanted.

Words filed with blame.

“Good, good.

Now let’s fix her.“

The cry’s tainted the halls walls, for years to come.