Nobody paid attention to Jasmine;
Hands unfurled, secrets whirled around their ears-
Gossipy talk, privileged walk, they all had done it for years-
At a place near the banks of the subterranean mystique;
Called the school on high-they were all high, she said.
No one was expecting to find Jasmine dead.
Sparkling bracelets and brains like headdresses;
People hate the way Jasmine dresses-
They sit in the corner and read each other rhymes-
Of the snow in the winter and Christmas time;
Paying Jasmine no mind.
A lonely hallway with moldy walls and stairs;
She sits on a step and prepares-
To go outside, a walk-by, she says-
To the boy with the toy to put her headdress on in bed.
She flaunts and tries to summarize with her lips;
What it means to be a part of that mystical clique;
She walks with head held higher by the nature of-
His hand in her hand, instead of-
Traversing the halls alone, looking for a savior;
Out of this place called normalcy, masked, truly sour.
Then the day comes, a big celebration-
The end of drudgery and the time of vacation;
Jasmine’s boy has left; he was tempted by another.
Who took him deeper under the covers.
Poor Jasmine lost her headdress and bold hallway tread;
Poor Jasmine, they said, when they found her, dead.