quiet destruction

finish line keeps moving, no respite. 

life is a marathon i’ve been treating like a sprint

i can’t stop moving no matter how hard i try to slow down

internally, i break. physically and emotionally caged, 

i prick my fingers with safety pins in secret.

i can't share my struggles with parents who do so much for me, 

why would i be ungrateful?

tears stain my journal. i keep bracing. 

after a year, i can’t hold it together anymore

i quietly act out.

a gift for an older friend who doesn’t go to my school,

i write sexual fanfiction, well-researched writing, 

knowing more than i need at 12 about anatomy. 

i’m proud of it and send it individually 

to a few close friends from school,

who pass it on to all my classmates.

i don’t express the deep betrayal i feel toward them

because if they don’t respond well, who will be my friends?

i say nothing and feel lonelier than ever

i’m bullied for it, and middle school boys

call me “writer of porn”

they say “she probably wrote it naked”

one classmate, who i called a friend, relays to me

that some boy said “everyone hates sophia, how could you not,”

not refuting it, and i wish i could forget that comment. 

when parents run late to school pickup, other

parents and teachers take the opportunity

to give me dirty looks and whisper about me,

the devious child corrupting their innocent children.

but i am an innocent child too. 

i don’t want to be here anymore. 

i lose trust in others. i keep bracing.

when i’m suspended from my catholic middle school,

the principal says, "it's quite good. you should write more, 

but we have to suspend you." i sit in the school office for 3 days

doing homework and penance. i later learn legal action 

was implied against me, suspension considered a gracious alternative,

as i am shamed and punished at home.

i stop writing. i keep bracing. 

i meet a bad therapist who reinforces the shame, saying

"so… i heard you wrote a...racy...story. why?"

learning at 12 what racy means. one day i’m pulled 

from school early before my long commute to music theory class

so we still have time to go where we’re going, unknown destination.

when we arrive at the police station, i am warned of the internet's dangers.

i stay quiet. i keep bracing. 

i feel like i broke the law and have to be punished.

completely trapped in my life and brace.

one night up late, sitting on the floor, 

organizing jewelry, i overhear a conversation:

"i don't understand why she did this or where she learned this"

i can’t handle what i’m going through. i need more support. 

but it’s all about other people. 

i don’t get to feel any way about it. 

my curve slowly progresses 10°, then stops awhile. 

doctors say i'm done growing, it's unlikely the curve will progress,

and i no longer need to brace. 

they’ll see me back in a year. 

relief, perhaps too good to be true, but

i assume doctors know what they’re doing. 

i trust them. i stop bracing. 

i didn’t know to do anything differently,

but part of me was lost in the destruction.