The girl who bullied me
had greasy skin and half-moon nails,
drank her Coke without ice,
leaned bow-legged against the wall
like she knew what beauty cost.
My bully was me.
I had no friends—
only obsessions,
mostly older girls who smelled of iris
and something black-tea bitter.
Sallys. Tamaras. Dollys.
Names that made the air look glossy.
They floated by lockers
like cigarettes in slow motion,
while I studied posture, timing, tone—
the science of what cannot be learned.
I wanted them to sense me,
the quiet cool of my knowing,
but I was giving awkward,
I was giving wrong century.
When I opened my mouth,
everything lovely leaked out sideways.
I knew colors like lovers—
pink lava-lamp flesh,
spaceship silver,
sunset bruised orange-lilac—
but none of it translated.
Words abandoned me mid-sentence,
leaving only the echo of my effort.
Sometimes, before sleep,
I replayed the conversation with Sarah.
You must understand—
she was the kind of rich that smells clean.
Her family fostered children,
and wore philanthropy like silk pajamas.
I wanted her to like me,
so I tried to sound bright.
Too bright.
The space between us tightened—
even the silence looked away.
Sometimes I still see her—
greasy skin, trembling straw,
that Coke sweating in her hand.
She drinks it warm, like punishment,
and smiles as if she finally
deserves the burn.
s.g
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
The Official Poetry Collection of WSS
