The poem was called the end of winter,
or it was called the students hoped for the end of winter.
It was a poem about the polar vortex, and the opposite polar vortex,
affectionately called the hell vortex, expected in summer due to climate change.
The poem was called there is no relation.
The poem was lost in the washing machine, torn to a million pieces,
ruined by running ink, as useful as it was before it was written.
The poem was inspired by forgotten compositions
that formed this person, sitting here, writing.
The poem was called this is to you, about a girl playing victim,
searching for someone, anyone, to call her bluff.
The poem had poor circulation, or it was waiting in the “transferred files” to be singled out.
It was known to have a pulse, if admittedly weak.
The poem had numbness at its center and tingling extremities.
It made a strong argument against the media's influence on young girls.
Its images captivated high school students, depicting the effects
of red wine and cigarettes, of Cosmo magazine,
of harnessing broken hearts, of letting “him” determine worth,
of binging, purging, and cutting.
The poem screamed experience:
the story of a girl oppressed by an ex,
her only defense toilet paper lining his trees.
The poem understood solidarity.
The poem was retitled omigosh I almost started crying.
The poem began with fourteen year olds needing neutral spaces like blogs.
The poem was about the poet's need for acceptance,
a place to go for affirmation and a pat on the back.
The poem welcomed her home.
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