Jane had pretty poetry
And hands the size of shoes
And swirling inky look-at-me tattoos
On the trophy shelves of her skin
And Jane never thought twice about you
And nor did she digress;
Don’t help me once, just hurt me
less
Yet in the eyes of everyone Jane was a trailer-worthy mess.
And some sweet girls they said things about Jane
How small and suffocating cotton would stick to her skin
How a boy with dark hair and slinky eyes
Boasted about the game and the win-
Yet no one ever seemed to whisper anything poisonous about him.
Friends, teachers, the
do-gooders and world-changers
Her righteous church-community youth leader
Would always have their little snickers of Jane
And that’s what drove her from church.
And no one ever had the nerve to ask Jane
How much did it hurt,
When she turned the corner and for her half-shared actions
Faced all the useless, unfair
blame.
No, not one silly citizen
Of that forsaken town in its forsaken place
Had the courage to go up to Jane
And say this simple truth:
That malicious folks could say what they wanted;
But she couldn’t be defined by that one little word.
Slut.
Was not what she was.
Debate Magazine
