"Dyke!"
"Are you a boy or a girl?"
I walk between buildings in my business attire
with my power stride and
straight-ahead stare
"Chin hair!"
"Bitch!"
There's no way to tell who said it
It's a mob of them:
15-year-old boys in jeans belted below their asses and
baseball caps askew
This isn't the first time
so I clutch my binder like a
Roman soldier his shield, and
hope with tight shoulders that I'm not
stoned to death by the
years of verbal schrapnel
"If you fuck me, I'll be your friend..."
"You always do what you're told?"
I'm empowered. I'm not s'posed to allow this
I'm not that little girl anymore
So,
I hide in the teacher's lounge restroom, throw
cold water on my face
I report what I call abuse and
face the crowds
They're told, "Don't talk like that; it
isn't nice" and "Say you're sorry"
But it doesn't matter what they say
Their smirks say more
"Dyke!"
"Chin hair!"
"Bitch!"
I ended the year running to my car,
driving off to Vegas and
not looking back
Next year, they'll be gone
But I won't
Nor will their voices
They echo on in my head, reverberate from
mind to heart to stomach and back
And they repeat thru the years like
a water cycle out
the mouths of generations
What a painful experience. You can't control other people, only how you respond. There isn't any advice or story that can erase the scars. So sorry. It's too bad they couldn't take the time to find out what a cool person you are, how poetic and talented.
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