I Inscribe Three Lines, Hush Hush Hush,

I Am Locked Into The Mirror And There Is No Door Out.

My English Teacher Has No Face. She Has Uncombed Stringy Hair That Droops On Her Shoulders. The Hair Is Black From Her Part To Her Ears And Then Neon Orange To The Frizzy Ends. I Can't Decide If She Had Pissed Off Her Hairdresser Or Is Morphing Into A Monarch Butterfly. I Call Her Hairwoman.

I Am Angry That I Starved My Brain And That I Sat Shivering In My Bed At Night Instead Of Dancing Or Reading Poetry Or Eating Ice Cream Or Kissing A Boy.

Everybody Told Me To Be A Man. Nobody Told Me How.

I Would Never Be Popular. I Didn't Want To Be; I Liked Being Shy. I'd Never Be The Smartest Or The Hottest Or The Happiest. By Eighth Grade You Start To Figure Out Your Limits.