A poem, for once.

“I’M BETTER THAN YOU,”

Claims Bethany Scott,

The 13-year-old precious, precocious,
Predator of the 8th grade who

Swaggers and Sways

Her thick caramel waves of
Haughty stings down slamming
Metal shields; who

Tweaks, twists, and crafts

Conversations for pedestal
Performances cared, believed
Foolishly by propaganda
Weakened minds; who

Casts (and laughs)

Meek minds to gutter, to
Rot submissively in
That smooth, curled
Crunching palm.

And I (how could I?)
Fall and cling

Frequenting hopeful thoughts of
Star-struck difference; foolish,
I know (do I?) for to feel predator’s
Sting just once should eradicate any
Warmth from my smile; instead,
I reach for one touch, surrendering
Shame-faced as her prey.

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