regrets

I

school is a living hell.

the hallways are bleak,
the noise too loud,
kids rushing to classes-
everything overlapping.

I miss-
no,
I'm not allowed to miss her,
you can't miss someone you broke.

when she died,
the school did assemblies for a week,
bringing therapists to school.

I want to laugh,
at the girls labeled Populars,
as they dab their "teary eyes."
saying how they'd miss her.

Hah,
yeah right.

...

ImNotOneToTalkThough

-

A therapist isolates me,
puts me in a room with four walls,
each white,
all the same.

His desk is wooden,
the classic dark wood,
that makes the screeching sound
when you scratch your nails on it.

I sit in a char in front of it,
my defiant face strong,
arms crosser,
legs spread wide,
staring straight in the eye.

We do this for a moment,
staring,
fighting for dominance.

I look away first,
letting him win the first battle,
he scribbles something,
I say nothing.

Fuck you.
I'm cursing him out,
in my head of course.
I'm not that defiant.

"Did you abuse Ruby Walkman in school?"

Okay, I lied,
I am that defiant.

The curses are flying out of my mouth,
before I can even filter them.

"Fuck you. Fuck you, you son of a bitch! You son of a bitch! You know nothing understand me? Nothing."

fuck.

he scribbles something down,
very calmly,
oh so slowly,
before looking me in the eye.

"Did you abuse Ruby Walkman in school?"

I lean back into the chair,
I say nothing,
I look him in the eye.

This time,
I don't let him win.

-

I walk out of the therapists room,
a line of six students stare.

Three are populars,
they're chatting like puppies,
they stop and stare,
love stricken.

So hot and mysterious, they chat,
I glare.

Two are bent over a sketchbook,
one is drawing feverishly,
the other light, soft strokes.

I catch a glimpse,
and the feverish movements,
have made a beautiful face,
smiling with a single tear.

The slow strokes,
have made two hands,
palm to palm,
there's a tear falling on one,
blood on the other.

I say nothing.

Then, the last one,
She is different,
I've seen her before.

She's writing in a notebook,
she glances up,
sees me,
and says:

"You are not my antagonist."

I stop,
the Populars stop,
the sketchers stop,
she goes back to writing.

I leave without a word,
her words replaying in my mind.

You are not my antagonist.

I write her off as insane,
crazy,
but her eyes were with such clarity,
when they stared into mine.

You are not my antagonist.

-

O N E

F I N

-