Habit FormingBecky was a scab picker,
her skin: white divots.
On the bus no one sat with her,
saying "lice ridden" "rat bitten"
"so poor she shares a bed
with her brother" which was
somehow such a bad thing.
I'd sit in the back of the bus
where the older kids played
Truth or Dare; where, behind
raised jackets, I touched
a boy's pale penis; where
whispers started about what
you would do for a quarter—
voices that began to say
chew your hair, your nails,
the inside skin of your lip.
CPJessie Carty is the author of three poetry collections but she also chisels away at prose in between teaching at RCCC in Concord, NC. You can find her taking photos and editing
Referential Magazine or blogging at
http://jessiecarty.com.
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