The Pollen? Or the Bee?

After a phone call from a friend
Telling her she's rotten,
And after getting shoved
Into a locker,
She lays
On the cold hard floor.
Writhing in pain,
Her hands grip the phone.
She decides to call,
Her cut wrists bleeding profusely.
The now red phone dials;
The EMT's knock at her door.
When no one answers,
They break the door open.
A lifeless body lays on the floor,
Along with the tears of a mother
Who never knew
About the endless torment
Her little girl faced.
At the funeral,
The speaker says,
"The knife may have slit her wrists,
But it was the people who put it
In her hand."

Author's Note

Written in 2016