when my dislike for a teacher turns sour and i cannot listen anymore but i still hear her speaking

she wasn't exactly nice before this

We are sticks and bones, 
I lied to a teacher today
Told her I don't write poetry

How could I admit to her
That when she prattles on about
First-person perspective
And repetitive sentence structure
And wide vocabulary usage, 
I know everything she does. 

Do not be surprised at my inclusion of
These are words I use on a daily basis,
Do you think I am a child?

She appears to laugh, delighted, 
And I bristle when she suggests I change a stanza
I know what I'm trying to say,
I want to tell her, voice filled with indignation, 
Yes, I meant to do that. 

She says "You are a poet, my friend," 
And I want to bark at her, 
I already knew that I was 
Do not call me friend  

This is a sore spot,
Of course it is -
I am a sore person. 

She says, "Call it 'Unbreakable',"
But I find that horrifyingly simple, 
Simpering, it does not fit the poem. 

So I name it something else, 
Something that scrapes at my tongue
And sends shivers of pain through my teeth
Because that is what a real title sounds like. 

And I bury myself in my words, 
Tuck myself in at night between 
'quagmire' and 'cajole'. 

You may see this as a thin veil, 
But I see this as my skin. 
And I don't need someone to tell me that. 

The End

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