End of the World
by Jessica Brody
Everybody asks
But no one wonders why.
I laugh as you pretend
To take interest in my life,
Smile when I pass
Then talk behind my back.
You think you’re so creative
With your meager attacks.
Keep searching for the beauty on the inside
But don’t forget to paint the beauty on the outside.
We all know
We all know
What sells to the crowd.
She doesn’t like the way I look.
She doesn’t like what I believe.
Well, that’s a damn shame.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I think the world will have to end another day.
You think that I’m a cheater
So call me what I am.
I know it’s hard to label
What you don’t understand.
You think that I’m a whore.
So what else can I say?
You’re the only one I see here
With a price tag on their face.
Keep hiding all the demons on the inside
But don’t forget to paint the angel on the outside.
We all know
Don’t you know
Who’s the fool in this crowd?
She doesn’t like the way I walk.
She doesn’t like the words I choose.
Well, that’s a damn shame
I wouldn’t want it any other way.
I guess the world will have to end another day.
Everybody asks
But no one wants to know.
Take me as I am
Or watch me as I go.
Keep wanting to be welcome on the inside
But won’t forget the ones who loved me on the outside
They don’t like the way I dress.
They won’t give up till the tears fall down my face.
But I’d never have it any other way
I guess the world will have to end another day.
They can’t stand the way I get back on my feet.
They won’t like what I’ve become.
Well, that’s a damn shame
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Looks like the world will have to end another day
Not today . . .
Girl Wars
by Crissa-Jean Chappell
They circle the cafeteria in packs
Solid as prime numbers.
Girls wage war with their laser stares
Designer jeans in identical shades
Of acid wash.
Fake nails and bulletproof bangs
Trapper Keepers, hard plastic folders
Splattered in neon unicorns
Leak out whispers
“Insert Your Name Here.”
Pockets swollen with crime-scene evidence
In Bubblicious letters
The note drifts around like a wheezy cough
You catch it.
Then catch on.
Your initials scraped into college-ruled paper
Furred with doodles
A felt-tipped mug shot
Flow charts of your faults
No telling who started it
Last period during AP Biology
Boxes checked yes/no/maybe
Breaking down your hair
Unpermed, uncut
Since kindergarten.
Your sneakers, Pez-purple high-tops
Your attitude, a vapor trail
Too skinny, too weird, too much.
“Maybe she’d look better
If she actually wore makeup, a padded bra
Or gained twenty pounds.”
At the bottom, a barbed-wire suggestion
“She should just stop eating.”
You can totally relate to the paramecium
Squirming inside that electron microscope
All your secret pieces
Magnified
Spend lunchtime alone in the band room
Drawing
Epic space battles
Under your desk.
Graphic novels that never get past
The first page.
Plotlines about girls with magical powers
Because X-ray vision is so overrated.
You’d rather be
Invisible.
The Curtain
by Deborah Kerbel
Me and them. A curtain divides us. I hide behind it, peeking out every now and then. Like a rabbit poking a nose out from its safe little hole in the ground; sniffing the air for danger.
A sharp voice shoots across the cafeteria toward my shelter. A second later, unwanted fingers slide up the spine of my still braless back. A deep, lip-curling laugh slices over my head.
I shrivel in my seat. And then comes a wet hiss so close I can feel it on my skin. A four-letter bullet grazes my ears—brands itself onto my brain like a filthy tattoo. Shivers crawl up my neck. Hunching over, I duck my face down until the curtain closes back around me like a cloak. Thin and scraggly, but it does the job. I shrink small, smaller, smallest. I shrink until I’m almost gone. Almost, but not quite. Invisibility, you see, is the unattainable dream. How easy it would be if I could glide through these halls without even making a ripple. Slide through the days, months, years of school and emerge safe and unscarred on the other side.
If only.
I wait and pray for the threat to pass. As soon as I hear the squeak of their sneakers fading away, I release the long breath I’d been clutching for comfort. My curtain sways with the force of it. I freeze until the long, dark blond strands settle back into place.
The echo of Mom’s standard before-school lecture scratches at my brain. Her disappointment has become a daily routine in our house that’s as predictable as burned toast.
“Why won’t you cut your hair?”
And give up my shield? Are you crazy? I didn’t ever actually say this.
She reached out a gentle hand. “It’s just so long and shaggy.”
I ducked out of the way, swallowed the lump of guilt rising in my throat.
“Mom, please . . .”
“It’s just that we can barely see your face anymore. Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”