Shine

The plaid skirt masks skinned knees and a tomboy smirk.

The girl grasps the edge of the mahogany bench.

Ghost white knuckles pierce through

butterfly skin.

She wears the sweet cry of victory on

seemingly sugar coated lips, and she relishes the taste.

A crimson hair ribbon dangles from cobwebs of auburn hair.

The smirk on the girl’s cherub face silently screams “It was me.”

Billy deserved what he got.

He should have seen that broken arm coming.

Teasing other people for being different

was just not something the girl stood for.

Maybe the girl shouldn’t have kicked him.

Maybe she should have controlled her RAGE.

Maybe, just maybe . . .

Billy will have learned his lesson.

The girl’s multicolored left eye does not swim with tears.

Swollen and bloodshot, battered and bruised,

yet her smile clings to her fair complexion

like a birthmark.

The principal’s door yawns open.

His voice bellows out, dark, deep, demanding.

He calls out her name, long and drawn out.

Each syllable a marathon.

Finally, the girl stands up.

She smooths her skirt.

She tightens her hair ribbon.

She sighs,

She turns,

and I triumphantly walk in.