They tell me that the blueprint is quite simple:
Walk through the double doors at 8:00 AM,
Ignore the sudden tightening in the temple,
And blend into the morning classroom hum.
Collect the letters stamped in bright red ink,
And stack them like a fortress on the desk.
But no one asks a teenager to think
About the weight of being picturesque.
My mother counts the trophies on the shelf,
And sees a future paved in polished gold.
She does not see me wrestling with myself,
Or how my hands turn numb when they are cold.
“It’s just a phase,” the gentle voices say,
“A little dip before the upward climb.”
But phases aren’t supposed to steal the day,
Or turn your heartbeat into borrowed time.
I sit inside the cafeteria noise,
A crowded island in a sea of sound.
I watch the easy laughter of the boys,
And drop my eyes down flat against the ground.
The phone becomes a mirror and a blade,
A tiny screen where perfect lives take root,
While in the dark, the plans I carefully made
Are tangled up in branches at the root.
I want to tell them that the ceiling drops,
That breathing feels like lifting heavy stone,
That every time the social music stops,
I am completely, entirely alone.
But words are heavy when you’re out of breath,
And silence is an easier wall to build.
So I play quiet, playing life and death,
Inside a room that never can be filled.