In the basement art room,
the poorly ventilated kiln humming in the corner,
and the boys behind me pulling my hair.
My breath caught as the pencil pushed its way
between my body and the seat,
mimicking things whispered about in the locker room.
They whispered behind me then, everything a blur,
colors swimming through tears,
cotton ball Santas leering at me from the shelves.

Whether because Miss Butterworth was more frightening,
the kind of teacher who still kept a dunce cap,
or because I was afraid of being branded
forever a snitch and a crybaby,
I sat frozen until the end.
The unwritten laws are schoolyard strict:
swallow it, swallow it all.

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