She, that girl,

sits there,

in that corner

of the lunch room

every day.

 

She, her eyes

stay glued to

her plate.

Amongst that,

that there chaos.

 

She, that girl,

avoids wondering eyes

that roam here, in her,

that girl’s direction.

But she, her there,

sits alone so that they,

those people,

won’t talk to her.

 

Yet she, that girl,

always looks angry

so that they, those people,

those lame people,

won’t bother her.

 

She, her there,

pretends not to know them,

those people,

and doesn’t hang out with them,

those girls, her “friends,”

because she, that girl,

thinks that too much estrogen

will kill her.

 

She, that girl,

sits silently

until them, those teachers,

make her move there,

in that group.

Because she, her there,

runs to another table

when them, those people,

sit near her.

 

Yet her, that girl there’s,

body is rigid,

a blocky one

like a sound-bullet-proof box.

No one in, no one out.

Yet,

she, that girl there,

sits silently saddened by

sonic stares with her head

so low, as low

as her eyes.

 

She, that girl there,

avoids all sound,

the voice of sitting alone.

She, her there,

eats, breathes, drinks, and is

alone.