Bully in the Mirror

[tectak]

She spends five hours getting ready for school
Knowing all her hard work is for naught
For by the time she gets to her locker she will be tripped into a reality that feels a nightmare
The names she can handle, as she has heard various versions her whole life
What hurts the most are the way people stare,
As if she has worms in hair
Some look her way in horror,
Some in wrath, she shys away from everyone's path
Beautiful and shy the kids at school whisper as she passes,
Only she hears FREAK, Slut, Crazy.
In class there is no reprieve,
Her teachers ignore her hand for the answer
Looking through her is worse than being glared at
Invisible is miserable
At lunch she sits alone
Stomach to tight to eat
Afraid she will have food and garbage thrown her way
The bell signaling the end of school could not come a second sooner
A rush to home she slams her bedroom door hard
Shaking she knows deep within is where self hate is born
She can not bare to look in the mirror for she fears her own reflection. When she finally does
All she can see is nonexistent self extreme glaring back.

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welcome to my words. Please leave feedback if you are so moved. I am not afraid or shy to answer any questions you may have about poetry or everyday life. Writers are family.

Hi and welcome,
It may be unfortunate that your opening gambit was veracity verse. By overtly stating that the piece has honourable intentions you remove some of the motivation to critique the work on poetic merit for fear that you may feel slighted by honest comment.
Nonetheless, and accepting that this is a New Member posting, I have to say that I would rather read some of your work with more poetic endeavour than what surely can at best be described as a third party complaint to a school governor's board regarding the much over-described teenage angst.
There is very little in this which uses poetic technique and as prose it shows no imagery or metaphor but clinical, untranslated, factual listing. Further, the expedient and random punctuation, combined with the faux-poetic capitalising of every line may lead one to assume, perhaps unfairly, that you do not know how to punctuate correctly or more kindly...consistently.
I hope you will receive this criticism as it is transmitted but I will now say something which I may regret. I an unsure why your enjoinder offers the readers here advice on life and poetry...considering, as I have, this piece in isolation and find it demonstrates little expertise in the areas you suggest your admonitions may be of benefit. Please understand that I am more than happy to be wrong in this opinion but my comments relate solely to the content of this one piece...not to you. That the overall tone of the work is, by your own words, reeking reality , I must square this circle and refrain from further critique...suffice to say that I hope to read more from you in future postings.
Very Best,
tectak