i entered your classroom with dreamy eyes and ready hands.
my soul was full of stories just waiting to be scribbled down,
TRUE stories just wanting to be let out.

but you, my professor, you told me lies.

as i sat there quietly in front of twenty other people, you told me that this is how
my story
HER story
would sound better.
how it should be realistic,
should be real.
because "statistics" say and "how many girls choose that method?" and "make this poem more REALISTIC."

but were you there when SHE grabbed that weapon?
did you discover HER red blood staining the carpet?
when HER family and HER friends saw HER white face laying in that casket, did you hold THEIR tears in your hand?

REALISTIC YOU SAY?

i gave you realistic,
you wanted a lie.

i won't tell lies.

what are we doing?

it's a beautiful thing, how we've been blessed with lungs allowing us to breath in the fresh air, and legs that climb mountains, and a voice that can fill an entire canyon with its echo.

and it's a beautiful thing that when we hear the crying echoes of the lost, when we see those who can no longer climb any higher, when we watch someone struggle for breath, that we don't have to sit idly by.

because God gave us those lungs
God gave us our legs
God gave us a voice.

what are we doing about that?

stolen tears

"you don't have to feel guilty, it's just a natural part of life, what you did."
but i did feel guilty,
i do feel guilty.
because everywhere you read about the heartbroken girls, spirits crushed by cruel boys.
but then, what does that make me?
i am not heartbroken. i am not cruel. i'm just a little lost.
is that okay?

"no" a voice whispers.
because you saw his face as tears poured down your cheeks.
shedding tears as if he should understand. as if he should pity you.
but he walked away from the scene of the crime, tears stollen from him.
those tears should've been his.

and the guilt comes flooding back.
because maybe i am cruel.
after all, stealing tears and making them my own,
using them against the wronged,
is there a worser crime?

(a poem for all the girls who've been there too. because sometimes it's not the boys who are the heartbreakers. sometimes people don't mean to be cruel. sometimes those tears are genuine.)