Circles

Hula hoops.  Basketballs.  Baseballs.  Bubbles of gum.  My favorite kinds of circles. 

Symmetry in raw form.  A perfect circle can be nothing but a symmetrical shape of beautiful numbers.

Rings.  Dog collars.  Breaking plates.  Imperfect soap bubbles that never scrub enough.  These are the circles that I hate. 

I make myself small.  Into a brave ball of tortoise shell.  I am tough.  I am rugged.  I am slower than them.  But I have an impossible field of strength around me.  An impenetrable bubble.  The ultimate circle. 

Don't look.  Not even peek.  If I don't see them they don't see me.  A wingtip shoe cracks into my side.  I was wrong.  They do see me.

It's just a crack.  My shell is still intact.  I am safe.  Don't look.  Don't look. 

Another shoe.  It cracks my lip.  Again and my chin is split.  The pain draws my head out of my shell and I look.  It's the worst kind of circle.

Man-like pride has swelled.  So big.  So ugly.  Arrows growing that will pierce my childish shell.  Their feet.  Their shoes.  They crowd around me. 

Still the crudest circle. 

And the cruelest.

The groans.  The sighs.  The arrows being drawn with fast moving hands.  Angry, selfish hands of pleasure.  Arrows dipped in milky poison; I watch a precious, rancid drop drip into a circle. 

The arrows begin to fall.  My shell is there.  I am safe.  And then it begins to melt.  Childish strength is no match for poisoned shame. 

The groans turn into laughs.  Their poison erodes me in a flash.  I am nothing but a lustful target.  Warm embarrassment runs down my face.  My missing tears are a magic bandage but I have no more to spare. 

I accept my silent place within their circle until it is soft and they turn away.  My stupid shell is in the corner.  Cast away with a laugh. 

Next time I will have a perfect circle.  A better bubble so I can float away.