Seventh grade in the lunch line

I stand, holding my tray. She with 

the lime green converse slides

breezily in front of me. Her long

black ponytail swings in my face.

I’m not that hungry anyway.

 

Squashed between two behemoth

throw pillows on the therapist’s couch,

I am very small. 

 

The woman across me has on a gleaming

silver locket. I peer at my reflection. I see 

my smallness, my acorn hair, matchstick 

limbs. My mouth vibrating vocal cords 

like crickets plucking 

pizzicato into the night.

 

Speak of yourself in the third person,

When you talk in the first person other

people get in the way. You are lesser.

You have to remember that Sophia 

has just as much hunger as the next. 

 

Seventh grade in the lunch line

Sophia stands, holding her tray. She with 

the lime green converse slides 

breezily in front of her.

Sophia taps her on the back.

The line starts back there.

 

Sophia’s words are thick, hefty.

She holds them in her mouth

before exhaling them out onto 

the Earth, brick by brick she 

lays them down on the dirt, 

creating friction.