Broken glasses held together by scotch tape,
Your chopped black hair sitting unevenly on your paper-white skin,
your bony body covered with dirty dollar store dresses,
I'm sorry.

I offered a pencil,
you chose to write in crayons.

Every time a tiny hand was raised,
a hundred groans croaked out of the masses,
Every book discussed had to have an enthusiastic giggle
Every sentence had to have a question,
Every word had to be replaced.
You wanted to learn
we wanted to pass

I can't pretend my eyes never rolled
at your shaking knees, your curious crooked eyes,
your busted front teeth.
I'm sorry.

You took my cell phone off my desk one day;
not because you wanted to
steal it
but because you wanted to
touch every button
with your bent little fingers and see how everything lit up in
the reflection of your glasses.

You had to move away;
your bones couldn't handle being tripped
and pushed
and pulled.
We all said you couldn't afford school anymore.
We all said you lied about your home,
we all said your stories were weird
we all convinced ourselves you were a freak show,
a looney.
I'm sorry.