Trigger Warning: descriptions of self harm. This is one of my more uncomfortable poems, but one which I hope discusses it to full effect.
The Speechless
10/01/2024
Today, I met the speechless
Girl. Speechless when called out
Last on the register, her eyes bound
Down towards her desk, orthodox and
Prepared to confess, yet unable to profess.
Her dress was grey, like all the rest. But
Her bag was pink, as was her coat too.
As was her pencil case, full of new pink
Stationery, but her pen lay stationary
On her desk. Hers was b l a c k whereas
Mine was blue, mainly because I lost my
Own black pen. Blue like that of a formal
Teacher, a conformative school or political
Party. All that my file stated was E.A.L.
Sometimes hardly a problem, and all is well,
Others can barely spell. So I was asked to
Help her with that- to "try getting her to write
Something down"- a fight around the
Frown on her face to get 'work' done.
So I ask her to copy what we're writing
about: prejudice. A little doubt, but she
Gets it down: p r e j u d i c e . Copied letter
For letter. Now, how should I connect
That to the advanced themes of the novel
Which we're studying? I leaf back through
Her workbook, where the pages are
Mostly . Days and dates,
Passing by, with nothing seen nor
Left behind. How to teach when nothing
In the past remains... Think fast.
I see her drawing, bore-ing ink onto the
Page; yes- that's how I'll get her to
Engage. So p r e j u d i c e I write
Again, and draw the following with
My pen:
Unfair it is, to explain this term to
Someone who knows it better than everyone else
In this room, at 11 years old. She follows suite,
Drawing better than most people I'll ever meet.
Yet as I notice as she jots things down
In her b l a c k p e n , I see more than just
A frown, but a crown of thorn slashes on
Her wrist. Hidden by the grey jumper that
Couldn't resist sliding down slightly. Scratching,
Picking, lashing, grooving, gashing, like her
B l a c k p e n cutting away at her
Pale paper. All I see now is REDx
The colour of the flags of hell, or my
Socks which have George Orwell upon
Them; the Prophet of a future arrived
Too soon. Blood. Bomb shells erupting,
Breaking, emptying, flowing, spewing
Hearts racing, lungs aching, eyes fading, impossible
Not to dwell on the nightmare that
Is happening closer than I'd thought.
...then back to blue. 'Friendship' the next
Theme to be discussed- or not.
F r i e n d s h i p
A thing she knows of, but cannot speak of.
Not a word exchanged, but so many conveyed.
So many invaded my mind too; of
Leaders shouting but not hearing. P r e j u d i c e.
And I find myself speechless too, and want to
Seek refuge myself for a moment.
All I can do is draw:
Say goodbye, report it with the hope
Of help, and continue to ponder why.
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