I look over to the girl with makeup plastered allover her face. I know the words they call her. We all see her with a new guy everyday as she walks beside him, arm in arm. We all see her and she kisses him, knowing full well tomorrow he’ll be her yesterday’s news.

When she was younger, we all knew her as the beauty that was the kindest, honest girl out there. She used to be friends with everyone and now everyone loathes her; treats her like a disease. We all know where she learned to act like this from; her mother who sells herself on the corner just down the street from the school. No wonder her father left.

Two days after school lets out, a newspaper makes its way to my kitchen table. A bullet through her head. A note left saying, “Tired of making love to the world. At least now I don’t have to.