Journalism in Verse

Practice Makes Perfect

by Kylee Holms

I’m afraid
Afraid that
That could be me
And those bruises
Could be on my body
And that trauma
Could be mine
And that I’ll
Well, I’ll be next

You compare yourself to those people
And come to the conclusion
That you fit the description better than anyone
Even better than some of those people
You are a target

That glare on your face
The anger, permanently etched into your expression
That anger only works for so long
Because there are some people
Some horrible, disgusting people
Who that won’t work on
And by the time you realize this
It’ll be far too late

You’re already accustomed to the stares
The stares
The stares that are so piercing
And yet, you hardly notice them anymore
Those stares that are so ridiculing
Tear you apart
And leave a pile of bones in place of your body
That stare one day won’t just be a stare
That’s what you fear

When you share this fear
Divulge people
And tell them
“I’m always afraid I’ll be next”
They don’t believe you
Mark you as dramatic
And attention-seeking
Because they don’t understand what those stares feel like
They don’t understand what it feels like
And they never will

What the stares feel like
Those people don’t understand that it never feels like a simple stare
It feels like someone is ripping you apart
Everything inside of you
Is coming undone at their demand
It makes you question your entire being
And isn’t it quite sad?
I think it’s quite sad how normal it’s become
I think it’s quite pathetic how you’ve become so used to it

And it makes you wonder
Makes you wonder if the only reason it hasn’t happened to you yet
Is because of your habits
Or maybe because of where you’re from
Or maybe it’s your privileged skin colour
Or maybe it’s just luck

Because you’ve seen your friends
You’ve seen those bruises on their bodies
And you’ve heard stories
Stories of those friends being cornered
In the dark of night
Slurs thrown their way
Along with a few punches
And then you hear about their time at the hospital
And you wonder why it wasn’t you
Luck is the only viable answer at this point

Some days, you look in the mirror
And paint those same bruises on your skin
Decorate your face with defeat
And imagine
Just imagine
How they must’ve felt, how they must feel
You call it practice

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