My English teacher assigned us to write out a memory, and then turn it into a poem.
Guess what, Madam Beotch?
All my memories make me want to die.
I settled for writing about the time my dad got pissed off at me for not wanting to eat fucking half-cooked chicken for dinner when I was 6, and he put me in the empty cellar hole with no way to get out for hours, until it was dark, and then he came back and called me a stupid ***** and a whore like my mom.
So I write this because I figure it’s better than the story of the first time I cut. And I passed it in, and the stupid ***** gives me a shit grade and says “It was wonderfully done, but I don’t appreciate you making things up on the spot just to get through projects.”
Fucker! How would you know if it really happened? How would you know whether my dad really pointed a gun at me and said I was either going back home with him half a state away, or to the hospital? How would you know that my stepdad sexually harasses me, but is still my favourite relative by default?
Stupid ****. I should have just written about the time my cousin walked in as I was about to slit my wrists ( the right way ) and let you puzzle out whether that one was true!
5 comments
Sadly, once she realizes you may be sharing the truth she may call your parents, making your situation even worse.
One of the terrible things about being young is the lack of power in your life.
Good luck
stuff like that has happened to me before,it use to piss me off so bad, still today when people dont believe something recent that happened,and they act like they do know,thats just because they never had to go through that stuff,it is so pathetic and dumb,just remember,your still standing, that women couldnt last a day in your shoes,
Ugh – I had a teacher like that once. She made us journal about things but would never comment on them, except for one kid writing about how he thought she (the teacher) hated him. Seriously, I’d probably draw her face on a box and start stomping on it and tearing it apart. That is the worst response I can imagine, though I agree with the previous poster, she probably wouldn’t have helped things even if she realized it was true. I hate that teachers forget how much some kids go through and just think we’re all the same with traditional loving parents. They need to fuck off.
I hate poetry. I couldn’t generate a poem, no way in hell.
Also that reminded me my parents used to lock me in the house, I got out by unscrewing the lock to a window and climbing out though.