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# Ding Dong, The B*tch Is Dead
- URL: https://hiddenvoices.ghost.io/ding-dong-the-b-tch-is-dead/
- Published: 2025-11-21T09:50:34.000Z
- Updated: 2025-11-21T09:50:34.000Z
- Author: Roberta Maretti
- Tags: Indie Life

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