{ not my fight } - yogi. writer. nostalgic soul. austin, tx

I can't remember her name anymore, but I recall her Dallas skyline t-shirt and slightly frizzy brown hair.
She had freckles and seemed like someone who would swear a lot, brave somehow.
My instant desire was to be her friend.
Ridicule came like a blow, like a heavy fist in my gut.
I choked on my tears and childhood heartbreak.
"Little girls are so mean."
Sound encouragement for life from my French teacher.
There were phone calls of harassment and threats.
She wasn't going to be my friend, she wanted to ruin my face, she sought some vile leadership of Monday Skate Night.
I never told my mom about the calls, never cried to my dad about the ugly words spoken against me.
I hid in my room.
I closed off the world.
I failed to understand that this wasn't my fight.
My self defense of kindness was like ammunition to her.
Little girls or grown men, some people will splash their pain on others without realizing.
Maybe there is a reason she always wore the Dallas shirt.
Perhaps those cruel words you only have courage to say to me, because you know I will never snap back.
It's possible suffering souls draw from a well because they feel empty.
You have my pity, you have my love, but to hell with you taking my light.