PUTA: a poem (revised)

You look the same

in your fifth grade

ID picture

but different

I look at you now

as you slump

against the back of the

green, metal chair

and wonder

where'd that 

wild-haired

bright-eyed 

ten-year-old

go?

You didn't have bangs back then

maybe the fringe hiding your right eye

is what makes you evil

maybe the hair gel seeping into your brain

is what makes you ask,

"are you on your period?

is that why

you gave me detention?"

the little girl in the picture

the one without the eyeliner

would never have said the word "pad"

out loud

without trying to

smash chin

into chest

bright red

mortified

wanting to disappear.

so where is that

sweet

little girl?

her frizzy black hair

now flattened and gelled

her wide eyes

now ringed with liner

covered in shadow

her mouth now spewing

spanish words i

shouldn't know

the definitions of

but i do

unfortunately

you know what? 

i might be a

PUTA

but i'm still the

PUTA

who tries to wipe the slate

clean after every nasty comment

you can't resist yelling

i'm still the

PUTA

that wants to read your words

even if yesterday they were

swears screamed at top volume

i'm the 

PUTA

who can sit down next to you 

twenty minutes after being called a 

PUTA 

swallow my anger

and read your poem

with an open mind

I'm the PUTA who gives a shit

not every PUTA can do that

Wrote this in Spring 2010 originally. Bonus points if you can remember the student who routinely called me a puta.