Bullygirl (#1)

The bathroom was brutal that afternoon.  She couldn’t see

past the the small group of girls in front of her,

their snarling flapping mouths.

Heavy swinging doors blocked by a small crowd

of lanky twelve-year-old selves.  She pressed herself

back hard against the dank

flatgreen wall, flooded by their

furnace tongues, their pungent eyes.

“Did you start yet?

Did you start your period yet?”

The question didn’t compute somehow.

The churning, the undertow, the growling

teeth did not fit the words.  She couldn’t

make sense of it – the fierce sounds

bustling her into a smaller tighter corner of her body.

The shock question hissing at her.

The dull lineoleum floor impenetrable, feebling her.

Should they be so teethy about this? So restless,

in clanking chain, so foamy in their gather?

Unable to interpret,

to see what they required,

she littled as far from their seeping force

as clammy walls allowed.

Chisled by their laser lips, her mind

damping down, laming itself, closing off,

she burrowed in wide-eyed busted open slappidy

repeat.

Chowed down on it,

incorporated the ragged minutes,

undulated her world view.

Absorbed the deranged mouths dumbly,

waited,

masts lowered,

eyes bent.

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