The Gate

A poem from Sue Collins in my Advanced English Class

Sitting in a small jail like room, the floor hard against my small feet.
Slick from the bath. Wet hair draped over my crystal face. I cannot see.
That tall stone like gate mocking me for the sentence I shall serve.
I pound my fists so hard they shatter into a mass of sharp glass.
The sound of laughter slithers into this darkened pit and turns it to ice,
my heart hard as stone for the woman who put me here.
This gate cannot break, it will not break, it only breaks me.