Their Prize Or My Price?

By Disha Ransingh

Indeed, it’s not just my books that I carry in the school bag

but a brown leaf from the branch where my soul hangs,

Waiting, to be crushed in the fists of their smirks and laughter

as they crowd me in the slate-grey shadows of the corridor,

They bang the metal doors of their lockers as they ask me

if I have that shimmery dress or why grace is something I can never be,

And I hide my eyes until I latch and lock the washroom door

to weep for the teardrops to dry on the polished floor;

I sit with my head low in the corner of the corners

as they play and mould me into a brittle clay armour,

They see me as some coarse stone that stays in a maze

so they rub their blades on me, for its edge to blaze under ochre rays,

I know they make their whispers louder for me to hear

louder enough that it’s echoes make my walls wear and tear,

I know it’s a flammable heart that lives under my thin skin

but why did they burn it to light their fireplaces within ?;

When the clock strikes for us to leave and go back home

I wonder how slowly the rods of my school gates are turning thorns

as if the next day, they’ll place my palm on it, to see my blood mourn,

Then I see my mother’s eyes gleam to ask how was the day

and I just nod, trying to hide today’s bruise when I say,

Duly, the next daylight brings a blackness for me to bear

for the pieces of cotton of my pillow still smell like my yesterday’s tear,

Then when I ask myself is my silence a prize to my bully

Or just the price I pay when I tolerate it fully?

By Disha Ransingh