– Rachel Gray –
He sat behind me and pulled my hair.
He took my pencils when I wasn’t looking.
He cheated off my English homework.
He giggled with the other boys when I walked
into the classroom. Like everyone else,
he called me Americana. And then, I found his
note in my backpack during a muddy walk home.
The birds and the trees read only this
over my shoulder, and they were cackling.
It made me sick. I wanted to cry. I felt like he had
seen me in my underwear. My embarrassment
was a well where I lost my face. I tore up the note,
threw it into the forest. It glowed against the muddy
Mik-Mik wrappers. It embarrasses me even now
to recall this. It is not about young love. It is about
the next day, how I expected change. That he would stop
and recall this. It is not about young love. It is about
Mik-Mik wrappers. It embarrasses me even now
to think of the note in the forest. Glowed against the muddy
well where I lost my face. I tore up the note,
like he had seen me in my underwear. My embarrassment
makes me sick. I want to cry. I felt like he had
whispered over my shoulder, and he was cackling.
The birds and trees read only this note
in my backpack during a muddy walk home.
Only they did not call me Americana. I found his
pencils and broke them. When I walked into
the classroom, he giggled with the other boys.
He cheated off my English homework.
He took my pencils when I wasn’t looking.
He sat behind me and pulled my hair.