Poetry: Butterfly Girl, Life

You look different in your photos

Your face isn't how I remember

But last time I saw it was

Three years by December

Your face look pale

Your eyes are scared

Your hair looks duller

Your glasses aren't there

Your smile is weak

Hands curled into little fists

You remind me

That only the good die young

You were the girl who loved butterflies

The girl who really didn't want to go outside

Because the bullies were waiting

With their mean words and their cutting remarks

You showed me once

That you were as innocent as the rest

When you lifted your shirt and showed us sick kids

The tubes in your tummy

And you said

something like (I hope they come out soon;

I'm not sure they will though)

I can't remember now

Just like I can't remember the last time we met

(I think it was in December)

Your name was Esme

You had blonde hair

And purple frames around your blue eyes

Your skin was pale

(Not as pale as your photos)

You loved butterflies

('What do you want to be when you grow up?'

'I want to be a butterfly, because they can fly')

You never reached double digits

(We hate to lose one so young)

And you never fell in love

You never knew who won the X Factor

(You liked Olly Murs - I'm glad you weren't disappointed)

I don't know where your grave is

But you have a bench

(What good is a bench when you can't sit on it?)

And they've engraved butterflies next to your name

And we were all sat in a circle

And Mr Simpson

(Bullfrog, we had both agreed, but a nice bullfrog)

said 'I'm sorry to tell you that Esme in Year Four passed away over the weekend.'

(Passed away? Where did you go?)

And nobody moved

And nobody cared

For one self-hating second

And I told myself

She's dead, she's never coming back

And a single tear came down my cheek

Then another

And another

And another

and another

And right now the words are blurring together

And my face heated

And I cried for you

(I've never cried so hard, I've never cried so hard since)

And I was the only one crying

And they took me out

(Who's they?)

And Mrs Dismore

(She was never there, left it to Mr Simpson, the supply)

Wait...

(Why is she here now?)

said 'Yes yes it's very sad did you know her well very sorry we'll do something nice'

And god what's wrong with you woman?

It's your school

(Not yours, the voices hissed)

so cry dammit cry cause

All I could think of was Esme saying

I prefer to stay inside cause the bullies are waiting outside

And still no one else was crying

And I cried for hours and hours and hours

And everyone made you butterflies

(Paper, not the real thing)

And stuck them up on the wall

And they stayed there

And you had a display Esme

Your artwork was the centrepiece

(It was the Esme-Monster)

With well wishes and hearts and poems

(Could you read them?)

And I did a poem

But the day after I put it up

Someone took it down

And the butterflies stopped flying over the walls

Because they were taken down

And you were gone

(Really gone)

And they showed a picture

Of you