There was once a kindergarten teacher

who, though she wore a likable mask,

found joy - perhaps even purpose -

in belittling small children,

her voice a lash of cold derision

as they curled in fetal silence,

trying to disappear.

She thrived on the power of fear,

a mean-spirited wretch in sensible shoes,

reigning over the timid and trusting.

But her sharpest cruelty

was reserved for the different -

the dreaming, the neurodivergent,

the ones still fumbling toward words.

She spat forecasts of failure

with venom so vile,

even the kind-eyed principal,

though present, stood powerless

beneath her toxic tide.

Long past the will to be kind,

she dragged her bitterness

into the classroom day after day,

pouring bile on innocent heads

who deserved gentleness and growth.

She flared like a banshee

but lived like a woman -

which meant she would not live forever.

And now, with years behind us,

her body surely returned to rot.

If there is a hell for the joyless cruel,

then let her find her lessons there -

for what she failed to learn

in a room full of children

might finally reach her

in fire.