Whispers

She hears the whispers and does her best to ignore them.  But they tell her so many things.  Pretty little poems and stories that fascinate and arouse.  She loves that part of it.  That part is all roses and rhymes.  That part is special and while not quite innocent, at least harmless.  She remembers everything during these softer times of the whispers.  She has even become adept at listening to these silky aspects of the whispers while never letting on to anyone around her that anything was amiss.
But then the whispers are not always harmless.  They know things.  They share small pieces... slivers of knowledge.  The whispers know... They just know.  People lie.  They tell you what you want to hear when they are friendly and they will say the most God awful things when they want to be cruel.  But the whispers know the truth some how.  They know and they share.  They share even when she does not want to know.  They don't care about her happiness.  Indeed, she would be happier if she did not know the secrets of those around her.
The whispers tell stories of cowards parading as men and the venal pretending to virginity.  The whispers know.  They know and they have to tell and they can't be silenced.