I can’t wipe from my mind
your blank face, features delicate
even in the grainy footage,
your hacked hair (not shaved, at least
he spared you that) actually punk-cute,
though of course that’s irrelevant.
What he took from you was choice,
control of the figuring-itself-out self
you show the world.
You couldn’t know
bullies weaken from the very years
that would have set you free.
For you, each bridge led to
steel against your nape, humiliation
always just a click away, nothing
left to do but jump.
After the camera pans to a pile
of your shorn locks, his self-righteous
voice asks, Was it worth it?
Your one whispered syllable’s
the same answer you gave the world
whose beauty offered, Stay.