Ding Dong, The B*tch Is Dead

By Laura B

A poem about killing the people-pleaser… and learning how to live again.

Some deaths do not involve a body.

Some funerals happen in silence.

Some graves are made of old apologies, inherited guilt, and the slow erosion of self.

Laura B’s poem, “Ding Dong, The B*tch Is Dead,” is not about violence — it’s about survival.

It is a fierce, unfiltered elegy for the version of ourselves that was taught to disappear to be loved.

This piece was born from Laura’s decision to kill her inner people-pleaser — to finally stop negotiating her existence, stop shrinking, stop saying yes when her body meant no. What follows is not softness. It’s fire. It’s reclamation. It’s boundary as ritual.

It has resonated with thousands not because it’s gentle, but because it’s true.

A Note on Content

This poem includes strong language and themes of trauma, self-erasure, and personal rebirth after psychological distress.

Please read with care and tenderness toward yourself.

The Poem

I buried her

soft-spoken and smiling

in a shallow grave of apologies.

•

She begged me

her mouth flooded with sorry,

but I was fresh out of breath

and had no more fucks to give.

•

She went quietly…

mostly

always tucking the sharp parts of me away

under napkins and small talk.

•

She reached for my sleeve as she knelt,

she finally reached bargaining.

Maybe we can meet halfway? she mumbled,

as if halves were meant to fit people into whole.

I didn’t have time for her

to reach depression and acceptance.

•

This was not a negotiation.

It was an eviction.

An extermination.

•

I read her the charges:

unpaid boundaries,

habitual shape-shifting,

emotional overdraw,

possession of stolen time with intent to people-please.

•

She blinked

big, wet, apologetic tears

and offered more pleas

because old habits die polite.

•

So I led her to the yard.

Set her in a plastic lawn chair facing the sunset,

because she loved the optics of gentleness

the postcard of her own niceness.

•

She put her hands on her knees

and practiced her exit smile,

obligatory and gleaming,

like costume jewelry.

•

She looked ridiculous

wrapped in her last good manners like a shawl.

Pretending they all loved her

just because she never said no.

•

I walked behind her,

feeling my feet in the warm grass,

and aimed the only weapon that works on ghosts:

a single word

my hands in the shape of a pistol behind her head.

•

Enough.

•

It landed like a bullet.

Precise.

•

She shivered, folded, slumped forward.

The lawn chair tipped

like a curtsey toward the dirt.

•

The sun watched politely.

The wind clapped once.

•

Neighbors might’ve thought I’d had a breakdown

or a breakthrough,

depending on their taste.

•

They’d call it a drama,

a miracle,

arson,

or murder.

•

I called it reclamation.

•

Then I buried her face down,

covered her with a mound of dirt,

and set that shit on fire

just to make sure she couldn’t claw her way out.

•

The smoke smelled like old boundaries.

Like caramelized etiquette

and overcooked politeness.

•

I flipped her off as the embers hissed,

a small, rude benediction

the only kind she’d ever refused to give herself.

•

When the flames died,

I stood over the ashes

and said a few words.

•

She was loved by everyone who needed

a doormat,

a therapist,

a free trial of patience

at her own expense.

•

She gave herself away by the handful

and called it generosity.

•

She believed no was a dirty word,

and yes was salvation.

•

She thought if she smiled hard enough,

the world might finally feed her something she’d always been craving…

love,

acceptance,

adoration.

•

Maybe they would finally include her

in all of their celebrations.

•

May she rot in peace.

•

She will not be missed.

Not by me.

•

She is survived by:

my backbone,

my vocabulary of no,

my time,

and a quieter home.

•

I read the will aloud to the worms:

All apologies are revoked.

Her “yes” shelf is now collecting dust.

All second chances are auctioned

with proceeds now used to buy true connections.

•

Her polite nods locked in a safe

dumped into the ocean of all her false devotion.

•

Then came the eulogy,

read by the murderer herself

that’s me.

•

You were very good at vanishing, darling.

You made yourself disappear.

Every time someone asked for more of you

you’d slice off another piece.

•

You were polite.

Smile always on your face

at least in public... you always cried in private.

Excellent at shrinking

to build others up high.

A professional ghost

hoping all her nice would bring meaning to her life.

•

And with that, there’s only one thing left to say...

you get a no, you get a no, you get a no...

and what’s that under your chair?

That’s fucking right...

it’s NO!

•

I feel like the Oprah of not giving a fuck anymore.

•

The congregation

my reflection in the garden window

clapped on cue.

•

I placed a plaque by the mound of ashes:

DO NOT RESURRECT.

•

I polished the shovel like a trophy,

because trophies are for winners,

and this...

this was a win.

•

I used to feel her nipping

at the corners of my mind

that tiny, high pitched

I’m sorry,

like a curse that won’t wash off.

•

I’d shrug her out

laugh

and flip her off again

a small, necessary ritual

of resurrection prevention.

Or maybe I'm just going mad again.

•

But she doesn't try anymore.

She’s dead,

and I am drinking in the freedom

like rain after a long drought.

•

My kindness is no longer currency.

It’s a decision, not a debt.

•

If you want me,

come meet me standing

not bowed into a pleasing shape.

•

And if they miss her

well, too fucking bad

there’s nothing they can do

to bring her back.

•

Rest in pieces, sweetheart.

You were very good at being everyone’s spare parts.

•

But I will not exhume you.

You are compost now

nutrient for the me who needed to grow.

And I am thriving on your death.

•

Goodbye, and good riddance.

I can’t say you’ll be missed.

•

And you,

If you’ve still got a people-pleaser rattling in your ribs,

Take her out to the barn,

say something kind,

then make sure she stays buried.

Don’t let her hitch a ride back in your car.

She’ll try.

•

Then come back here

and we’ll raise a toast

to a life

without that people-pleasing

soul-sucking

life-ruining

always yes-ing

both sides-ing

bitch.

•

Too harsh?

Meh...I don’t fucking care.

Cheers!

Why This Matters

In a world that rewards “nice,” especially for survivors, for women, for people taught to survive by becoming palatable, Laura’s poem is a refusal to keep performing.

It’s not just about boundaries.

It’s about identity.

It’s about giving yourself permission to live without earning it.

Laura doesn’t romanticize healing. She exposes the grit in it. The rage. The mess. The breaking. And she does so with sharp humor, brutal honesty, and a voice that feels both dangerous and deeply necessary.

About the Author

Laura B is a poet and storyteller writing on the edge of darkness laced with comedy. She writes to make you laugh when you shouldn’t, cry when you must, and feel less alone in this gloriously chaotic dumpster fire we call life.

A survivor of severe childhood trauma and a suicide attempt, Laura found a lifeline in writing — choosing to bleed onto the page instead of her skin. For her, every reader who feels seen through her words is a victory.

“Anytime somebody resonates with something I write or feels less alone, that’s the greatest win in the world.”

Connect with Laura B

Follow her work on Substack:

👉 https://substack.com/@writeintheshadows

Original poem source:

👉 https://open.substack.com/pub/writingintheshadows/p/ding-dong-the-bitch-is-dead