DISCLAIMER: This poem is quite…dark…for lack of a better term. But, here it is.
Janey, At The Back Of The Class
And what of Janey
The ghost at the back of the class
She plays under the slide at recess
Alone
Tiny fingers picking the order out of her braids
Trying to reach deeper, hoping
To pick the slaughter out of her brain
Memories
Of an uncle’s love she never asked for
and tried to scream away
Uselessly
With nobody home
I hope you liked it. Actually, I hope you didn’t. I don’t even like it. Because the story is so common.
Too common.
