She is straight out of some twisted fairytale
Of glass shoes stepping on eggshells. Echoing
to the back of the room, in the last seat.
Asking if she could please borrow your pencil.
Softly. Hesitant. Like some careful creature
caught in Never Land where tapping her shoes
Won’t get her home, but she’ll try anyways.
Praying eraser shavings on the desk
Were fairy-dust or magic something
to make this all a little less tragic.
When she flings wishes at stars taped to her walls
For the strength to save herself and say
her name without a timid question mark.
Like a windowpane before the rock hits.