She falls in love every year. 
With her ELA teacher
and the stacks of encyclopedias,
her words that are brought up by the throbbing medias,
that girl leaves an arm and a heart in that tomb, that
comfort of school wrapped around her skin a womb. 
Stole her senses, her world stains-
Slicing coat fabric rubs against the grains
of what’s real or fictionary-
Raise your hand if you’ve ever been called a walking dictionary.
She falls in love with
the bleeding lines that are carved by the sun,
she plunges into love with the gory times when they say
‘Hon-
‘All you have are pretty words,
they don’t fight
for your skin when it hurts;’
well, they were right.

All she has are pockets stuffed with vocabulary,
Yes, she understands, the real world is scary,
so she builds a wall.
stacks brick after dark grimy brick, she makes a barrier and in between cracks
she sticks page after page of aesthetic picks, but,
paper rips
when it’s wet and crying
is one of her ticks.
Did they tell you that it’s hard? 
Did they say that these words become mines,
where our literal worth is defined by
the width of our minds,
did they tell you
that a child can rip out a heart?
Well, she guesses kids will be kids.
Grades on a chart, chart, uncharted parts
where they pull her through swamps by her hair,
hearts, so she cuts off her hair, and that’s where it starts.
They tear down the brown wrapping paper she has pulled
tight around her frame, they said
“Let’s tape her to the walls
And wait until she falls.”
Annually, she is peeled off stucco by shame.
So she stands by herself,
bricks on the floor,
Mother is crying as she crashes into the door and she’s
Dying but you can’t see a single tear, and by now it’s been months,
And she falls in love every year.