The Cool Girl

In the world of the "cool girl," she exists,
as a projection of male desire that insists.
She’s the one who seamlessly fits,
into his world, but never commits.
She laughs at his jokes, plays along,
but her voice is drowned in his song.
She adopts his interests, his desires,
while hers are pushed to the fires.

Speaking French, not for the love of the tongue,
but to appeal to him, where she’s among
the few who conform to his fantasy,
a role she plays with practiced artistry.
She's the muse, the ideal to attain,
yet in her shadow, real women remain—
bound by expectations, confined by rules,
where her presence demands they play as fools.

The "cool girl" is a mirage, a mask,
behind which lies a daunting task
of erasing herself to fit his mold,
a story too often retold.

For she bends to fit the shape they choose,
and yet, somehow, she’s set to lose.
When she conforms, she’s seen as fake;
and if she rebels, she’s a mistake.
Too tame for one, too wild for another,
an impossible ideal, forced to smother.

She laughs just right, she wears his shade,
her colors dulled, her edges frayed.
But when he grows bored, she’s cast aside—
a phantom of wants he’s satisfied.
For a man’s desire is never still,
and she, the canvas for his will,
must shift, must change, at his whim,
her spirit light, her self grown dim.

Her beauty, her grace, a show she wears,
the soul beneath replaced by theirs.
Each joke, each hobby, each thought she trades,
another layer of self that fades.
She shapes her laugh, molds her tone,
but finds herself still alone—
punished for grace, chastised for style,
her essence fading mile by mile.

They crave her calm, but scorn her pride;
they want her near, yet still denied.
Too bold, too soft, too much, too small,
forever wrong, no matter the call.
And so she learns to blend, to sway,
a ghost of herself, hidden away.

If she agrees, she’s seen as weak—
a woman compliant, afraid to speak.
But if she resists, she’s “out of line,”
too daring, too proud to toe the line.
A balancing act, a tightrope walk,
where every choice invites their talk.

The world is his, and she the guest,
a lover made to serve and jest.
For when she dares to claim her own,
she’s scorned for stepping from the throne
they gave, adorned, and framed as hers—
yet never meant for her, but theirs.

The “cool girl” is flawless, untouchable, smooth,
her edges sanded down to soothe.
Yet with each concession, each piece lost,
she pays for approval at too high a cost.
While real women linger, unseen, confined,
locked in the prisons the "cool girl" designed.

But beneath the mask, a fire remains,
a spark that whispers of unbound chains.
A memory lingers, sharp and bold,
of a life that’s hers alone to hold.
One day, maybe, she’ll cast aside
the roles imposed, the truths denied.

For the "cool girl" is a hollow tune,
a fleeting phase, a scar, a wound.
Yet how does she break from chains unseen?
How to reclaim what they demean?
A dream in the making, a truth concealed,
an echo of wants never revealed.

For the "cool girl" is an empty throne,
a crown of thorns made to be borne
by every woman who dares to be
in this world that wasn’t for her beauty.