She spins around in her chair,
Not worried about people—
Their strange lives and thoughts.
It’s fun to pretend
As if she’s not afraid,
As if her world were forever pure.
She allows a pencil to
Rest in her hand as she spins.
What harm can a pencil do?
It’s reliable, and nice,
Clean. Comfortable.
She halts with a gasp:
The utensil has marred
Her perfect, white desk.
Everyone can see a mark
On a white surface,
So she rubs it out, believing her eraser Could conceal any damage done.
But still, and always still,
Gray streaks will smudge
Her perfect little world.
A two-fold attack that
Leaves her wondering,
“How did I let this happen?”
The stained cannot forget
That which has marked her.
It was branded into
Her memory when she
Was the one who let the
Tormenter tarnish her world.
-Michaela Brady
