The Girl With Poetry On Her Arms (3/30)

I knew her. She was the kid who
would write poetry on her arms
in black sharpie because she liked
the way they smelled.

Her mother kissed her every morning
and made sure each lunch sack had
a note with a little heart on it and
the words: “love” and “hope” and “faith”.

At the lunch table the kids would tease her
and draw penises for her arms, scribbled with
words like: “poop” and “stupid” and “hate”.

At home, she’d stab her arms over the
l’s and o’s until they bled and she would
always wear a jacket at dinner.

It was on a summer day I saw her
thirteen year old body being dragged
from the house on Elm Street.

She had hung herself in her room,
wrote a note with a little heart on it
in black sharpie on her arms.

A few years later, I saw her mother
at a store and saw the tattoo
on her arm as black as sharpie,
with only one word: “despair”.