Rosemary (The Effects of Bullying)

Rosemary plays the cello.
The movement of her sharp bow,
Tickles the strings,
She makes music,
From her soft cries,
In the dark corner of her room.
Rose.
Everyone called you by the beautiful flower you were,
You hid behind Photoshop and usernames,
Using brushes to tug at your perfect petals.
You were the perfect daughter, friend and student,
A caterpillar,
Wrapped up in a cocoon,
Hoping to make it out alive as a butterfly
Mary.
Your dorky glasses and crooked teeth got you many,
Hardcore, metal friends,
You greeted the lockers with hard thumps,
And everytime you looked into the laughing crowd,
You prayed to your Saint above that a name,
Wasn’t the only thing you had in common.
Rose.
Your perfect features highlighted in the little boxes,
Attracted the attention of destructive bugs.
The word “Fake” was plastered all over your screen,
And your perception of the world became skewed,
But still you wore a smile to the family table every night.
Mary.
The kids at school whisper behind your back,
Not noticing that the windows of your mind are open.
You never invested in a pair of headphones,
Knowing it was no use because,
Nothing could drown out the ringing in your ears,
After the initial impact of the concrete steps.
Rose.
Under the cover of brightness and contrast,
The kids don’t notice the tears in your eyes.
Instead they comment on your lack of intelligence,
And celebrate with each other,
The worst insults.
You don’t know how to deal,
Your virgin hands make love to the delete button,
And the tears blur out the world.
Mary.
Speaking of virgins,
The kids make it a point to let you know you aren’t pretty enough,
They ask you if you believe in channeling,
Tell you that becoming a nun would be the best thing,
And trash your beliefs because of the stitches in your backpack.
You go home and get on the computer for the first time.
Rose.
A new website to deal,
You click the links to find Mary,
Someone as saintly as the things you wish you believe in.
The two of you start talking,
And you find comfort in the lonely soul you found.
Mary.
You find out that flowers pray just as well as you do,
And that your outward appearance is a blessing.
But still you feel invisible,
Looked right through.
Rose.
You find out that saintly girls get scared too,
That those magazines hidden in your pillows are curses.
But you still worry about what people are saying,
And you wish you were invisible.
One day,
You find each other inside yourselves.
In a desperate attempt to find who you are,
You repeat your name in your head.
Rose. Rose. But suddenly,
You’re confused, Rose. Mary. Rosemary.
The kids at school don’t understand,
The new name on your paper,
The teacher spitting out the new prefix,
Because even he doesn’t believe Mary is,
Pretty enough to be called Rose.
Rosemary goes home after school.
She looks in the mirror,
At the tender bruises from Mary,
Her perfect hair falling into her face.
The perfect daughter part of her goes to the kitchen,
But instead of taking her seat at the table,
She opens the silverware drawer.
The clink of the forks and spoons and knives makes her,
Want to become a musician.
So now Rosemary plays the cello,
The movement of her sharp bow,
Tickles the strings,
She makes music,
From her soft cries,
In the dark corner of her room.



******- Please give me feedback, this is for a poetry slam that is going on next week and I need a final submission. Thanks! -******