Jackie Gilmore

You probably don’t even remember who I am, nor should you give a damn, but you were the only fifth-grader I could ever be faithful to, a fruitless endeavor that may haunt me forever if I choose to allow it.

I was
the damaged goods of
schoolyard understandings
those who were
different deserved
to be reprimanded.

You were in
a social class well
above me,
with lovely hair
and whitened teeth that

the first kiss I never
knew I’d missed,

buried in the
snow under
Classroom 13 by a kid twice
my size and more
daddy issues than…

Jesus Christ, Jackie, it’s
no wonder I’m
such a prick.

And that’s not to lay the blame at your feet, because ignoring such torture is quite the feat in itself, as you laughed with your friends at the insults those whelps felt suitable to befall me.

I just find it appalling
you could meet my gaze, then look
away before a
fist met
my face.

You were the first girl
I mistook for
a missed connection, but there were only
flashes of repentance in the hierarchy, and

I was merely
a lesser race.

4 thoughts on “Jackie Gilmore

  1. Occasionally I’ll meet someone who (well into adulthood) still completely inhabits their mean girl persona from junior high, or even their elementary school playground bully. (These are the people who sometimes make me wonder why we ever did away with the firing squad at dawn.) Most people manage to outgrow all that though … and that’s a beautiful thing. (I still remember the name of my junior high nemesis–Roxanne Isenhoff, in case you’re wondering. There will be no poem of that name from me 😉 Though I am kinda curious whether she’s doing time.)


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