From my poetry notebook…This Ain’t Shakespeare.
She’s beautiful, popular and proud.
Her friends are kids, from just the right crowd.
Look how she laughs, talks and smiles.
Her admirers swarm, as they walk the school tiles.
She looks in the mirror and winks at the image.
Knowing her beauty will win, in any boyfriend scrimmage.
Her clothing is perfect, ensuring that name brand labels appear.
Then tossing them carelessly, when there’s a rip or a tear.
I dare to walk up to her and say, “hello.”
My knees are shaky, trembling out of control.
She looks at me with scorn and contempt.
I feel as though I’ve fallen, and there’s no safety net.
Eyebrow arched, her words like a sword.
I’m not the kind of friend that she’s looking for.
Her laughter rings true, behind my back.
I hide in my locker to stop the tears in their tracks.
But at the end of the day, once her crowd is all gone.
She sits silent and lonely on the bus ride towards home.
Her slender shoulders sag, her head hangs down.
The bus stops at her house, her face wears a frown.
Framed in the doorway is a well-dressed man.
An angry expression on his face, a drink in his hand.
She pauses, walking slowly to the house.
Visibly shrinking into her expensive new blouse.
His loud, angry voice carries to the bus.
She cringes and cowers, afraid of his touch.
I flinch when I see his hand connect with her face.
A flaw upon her beauty that even make-up can’t erase.
I realize I was wrong about the person I thought she was.
How she hides behind an image because of circumstance and cause.
How she likely needs a friend who’ll hold her hand as she cries.
A friend who’ll look past her persona and pride.
A friend who’ll see the terrified child within.
Screaming to move away from those hidden sins.
I may not be the friend that she’s looking for.
But I can be the friend that she needs, so much more.