Every day to school Lucy wore a shift of rags haphazardly stitched, feet capped with pumps that didn't fit, her hair a cascading foam of flaxen spirals. At lunch she'd eat mayo on white, alone, and secretly scratch along her leg seams, the rough keloid scars of class, of home. She'd ignore the sidelong glances, sniggers that sucked the air, corridors of silences, the other girls' fear. They could be her or, more awful yet, were. She would rise, glide by them, seeing in her mind's eye no dollar store false pride, only the goddess sge us on the inside.
submitted by Denise Tarka,
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