"gabrielle" poems - Hello Poetry

Marissa Ann was a firecracker of a little girl. For her, there was no fence too tall to climb, no bully too mean to face, no street too busy to cross. She was all tangled hair and toothy grins. And she'd yank the book right out of my hands and say, "Gabrielle, we have more important things to do than read." In the jungle of our lives, Marissa was a lioness, queen of the pride. I was a mouse not indigenous to these parts of the second grade. The world was a terrifying place, and I had no problem cowering in the corner, knee-deep in a pile of Nancy Drew. I tried to stay huddled behind my words, drowning in the ink, attempting to let the pages be my armor. Marissa would not let me. When I allowed bookshelves to be my shields, she came guns blazing, and kicked them all down, then stood me back up on my feet. She'd grab my hand and pull me head first toward adventure. Marissa was tough, and everyone knew it. There was not a soul alive brave enough to pick on Marissa Ann. But me? I was an easy target. The other girls said I was "weird" with my enormous wire frames resting atop full cheeks, and my frayed jeans, a glowing reminder of my mother's lack of wealth. I heard the whispers on the playground about the chubby girl who read, (can you believe it?), chapter books. Brianna was a demon of a child. She'd bat her pretty little eyelashes and everyone would melt. She had the entire second grade class wrapped around her tiny little finger. She'd corner me on the soccer field and do everything she could to remind me that I was different. But one day at recess, she was nowhere to be found, until I made my way through winding halls, back to the warmth of our classroom. There sat Marissa with a devilish glint in her eye, waving me over to sit in the desk beside her. Behind us, a sniffling Brianna, looking forlornly at the teardrop stains on her pink lace skirt, her mouth pulled tight into a perfect straight line. I looked back at Marissa with a curious glance, then intertwined her hand with my own. The sound of stifled sobs behind us and the warmth of her skin on mine sealing an unspoken vow between two girls with puzzle piece fingertips that only fit each other.

0

Mar 11, 2014

Mar 11, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC

Howaboutno

The Many Adventures of Supergirl (and her dorky bookworm sidekick)

Marissa Ann was a firecracker of a little girl. For her, there was no fence too tall to climb, no bully too mean to face, no street too busy to cross. She was all tangled hair and toothy grins. And she'd yank the book right out of my hands and say, "Gabrielle, we have more important things to do than read." In the jungle of our lives, Marissa was a lioness, queen of the pride. I was a mouse not indigenous to these parts of the second grade. The world was a terrifying place, and I had no problem cowering in the corner, knee-deep in a pile of Nancy Drew. I tried to stay huddled behind my words, drowning in the ink, attempting to let the pages be my armor. Marissa would not let me. When I allowed bookshelves to be my shields, she came guns blazing, and kicked them all down, then stood me back up on my feet. She'd grab my hand and pull me head first toward adventure. Marissa was tough, and everyone knew it. There was not a soul alive brave enough to pick on Marissa Ann. But me? I was an easy target. The other girls said I was "weird" with my enormous wire frames resting atop full cheeks, and my frayed jeans, a glowing reminder of my mother's lack of wealth. I heard the whispers on the playground about the chubby girl who read, (can you believe it?), chapter books. Brianna was a demon of a child. She'd bat her pretty little eyelashes and everyone would melt. She had the entire second grade class wrapped around her tiny little finger. She'd corner me on the soccer field and do everything she could to remind me that I was different. But one day at recess, she was nowhere to be found, until I made my way through winding halls, back to the warmth of our classroom. There sat Marissa with a devilish glint in her eye, waving me over to sit in the desk beside her. Behind us, a sniffling Brianna, looking forlornly at the teardrop stains on her pink lace skirt, her mouth pulled tight into a perfect straight line. I looked back at Marissa with a curious glance, then intertwined her hand with my own. The sound of stifled sobs behind us and the warmth of her skin on mine sealing an unspoken vow between two girls with puzzle piece fingertips that only fit each other.