Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Lady Problems

I look up from my book.
A girl—pink bangs
dark baggy sweatshirt
holds her planner out:
Can I go to the nurse?

I see no cuts,
bones all seem intact.

Why do you have to go to the nurse?
Do I have to tell you?
Yes. I don’t want to.
Well, I can’t let you go
if you can’t tell—

A glare,
half fright
half anger,
cuts my sentence short.
I sign her planner.

Hope you feel better.

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