i always ask the world,
with tears in my eyes,
fists clenched against my chest,
as to why it throws crumpled papers
towards me every single morning
that i’ll enter our classroom.
and if not crumpled papers,
it’ll be teacher’s used chalkboard eraser.
and the chalk will stick in my pores,
and in the fabric of my newly washed
blue shirt, and on my hair.
then i will hear laughter from the back
of the classroom where other students
sit around, forming a circle using their
chairs, talking about
the classmates that they don’t like
the most...
and i often hear my name.
i can’t tell my teacher,
because i know he won’t do anything
to help an irrelevant student like me.
he will just tell me
to stop crying,
because he’s not yet done
with whatever he’s discussing
in front of the class.
i hope i can shout at them,
and tell them that i’m tired of it.
but i can’t, because my voice is too soft,
the violence is absent,
the aggressiveness is nowhere to be found;
they will just find another thing
about me to mock
if i did that.
mother, i can’t tell you too,
because i know what you will do.
i don’t want any more chaos,
that’s why i am keeping you out of it.
i’ll brush my hair with my fingertips,
and hit my face multiple times with
my tiny palms just to
remove the traces of the powder.
i will wash the blue shirt myself,
because i don’t want for my mother to see.
she’ll ask me where i got that once she
laid her eyes on it,
and i don’t know how to lie,
but i don’t want to tell her either.
let me do all the work
of adjusting
just for things
to fit. i can do it.
i just don’t want any more chaos.
YOU ARE READING
Found This Book Somewhere In The Forest
Poetry"Talk to my soul later midnight, when the moon's at its peak. That's the only way of communication that I know, because my physical lips will stutter if I told you about how I want to tear my human skin apart and go out."
