This was from a poetry prompt in a group I am in and decided to share here.
I’m five. I am under a table and crying during recess.
The pretty girl tries to comfort me with words that are not comforting at all.
It is the first time I cry in a classroom but not the last.
My school career is punctuated with extreme emotions.
I get help that is no help at all.
I continue to cry in classrooms, while teachers and principals try to explain to my peers why this happens. I don’t hear the words.
Before long school is interrupted, not with crying but with hospitalizations.
I’m given medicine that is not medicine at all.
I’m given gifts of comic books, and discover four-color passion.
I am no longer in school, but I still cry.