The Spelling Bee.
And you're standing
Up in front of the whole school.
You're worried that you're jeans aren't acceptably tight,
Or there's a minuscule curve in your hair,
Or there's a little stain on your shirt,
Or food on the corner of your mouth.
And the microphone accentuated
That you were wrong.
And you know you were wrong.
And your eyes are on that little bell.
And the little millisecond
Feels like a century.
And the eighth-grade English teacher's right hand
Inches slowly to the bell.
And it rings out with a clear sound,
And as you move to your seat,
The seventh-grade English teacher tells the correct spelling.
And the walls ooze mockery.
How did you forget the G?
You not-so-champion-like 8th grade class champion.
You pathetic failure,
Out in the first round.
Because the crowd was in front of you,
Before they were behind.
Before, it was just you, and Logan, and the eighth grade Algebra/Pre-Algebra teacher.
And now you sit at home,
You failure.
And you write this,
Because clearly you are not a failure.
Ah, but you are a failure.
And it's socially unacceptable.
How can you return,
And face the faces,
Come Monday?
You failure.
And you are just another failure,
Beaten by the Anxiety Bee.
