Poetry

Girls

I watch them in the hall,
the subtle ways they accept or shun:
a hug given (or not),
furrowed brow and sideways glance–
their body language denies
entry into the inner circle

if you do not dress the part
speak the part
act the part

give in.

Their long, slimness
sneers at difference.

All it takes to become a target:
the wrong clothes,
an awkward laugh,
an extra pound.

The attack is relentless
and indirect–
a pound a flesh taken
via the soul.

It’s an old game,
played out in the same
spaces
every year.

How many have they broken?

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