I sit in the middle of a classroom.
My hands folded together,
Containing in my closed palms,
Everything I want to say,
In hopes they'll understand.
I overhear them talking.
Recalling this girl, a slut,
And how they wished,
The prude next door,
Would just "loosen up".
The whiteboard at the front,
Scribbles Shakespeare's sonnets,
But on the bedroom walls,
Of the boys all around me,
Are the images of the "ideal body".
But then when I lean over,
To help the girl across,
The tops of my breasts become perky.
The boy in front stares.
It's okay. He's only a boy.
Then a few rows over, another
Makes obscene gestures,
Ones he thinks only the boy
with the arm around the girl
Can see, as if us girls never ever notice.
As if us girls never notice
The absurdity of how the boys,
Are allowed to always treat us.
No. We notice. But we just sit
With our hands folded.
~S.A.
YOU ARE READING
the first letter of the alphabet.
Poetryall of our stories come from the same beginning. all of my poems come from that same beginning.
