They laugh behind her.
Like knives she can feel their fingers pointing
Their eyes staring
But she refuses to turn her head
She refuses to let them know that it hurts.
The bus ride is long and bumpy
She pushes her knees up against the seat in front
It’s easier to sink down lower this way
Easier to not be seen or heard
Easer to just melt into the sea of teenage talk
Of teenage smells and teenage fear
It’s easier to be still than to stand out in this crowd.
At each stop, they get off.
Walking in their brand new sneakers
And expensive back packs
Their manicured hair and perfected bodies
Their manufactured image.
Rubbing it in her face
The brand names and shadowed eyes bring her deeper
Bring her deeper into falling for it.
Herself.
The reflection in the window is unlike what she sees outside.
Unlike what she sees around her.
Unlike what she wants to see.
Misshapen and frizzy,
Rosed and un-concealed.
Heavy blue metal frames and thick magnified glass.
Disgusting.
Disgusting, she is sure are the conversations that flow around her
The spoken words
And unspoken words
That swarm and protrude her own inside thoughts
Do they like me?
Should I look like that?
Do they talk about me?
Should I be like that?
Battling against this storm, she struggles
Through the quarrel of hating yourself so that others will like you
And being the victim
Or grasping the little pride that’s left
And simply being a witness to the crime.
It is her stop.
The bus waits.
Bravery
She tries it on and walks through the crowd and off the last step.
Her back is now all they can see
Her back, if they are looking, if they care, shows no fear, no hurt.
Her face, her identity, although dangling by a thread,
Is safe for another day.
