At The Middle School (the come-around)

The crying and cursing gets you nowhere. I'm not "a chosen one." I'm not 3 years deep. I'm not a relative or a good friend. I am new. 125 pounds. Fresh. Skin breaking out. Boring jeans and New Bals. Mind a thousand places but rarely on the paycheck. The stretch of my legs across the new sofa is the reward. The dark chocolate covered raisins are the luxury. The all night party on a Wednesday night is the rebellion. And the shit-talk. A sneak away to the coffee shop during a prep period. A walk on the third floor to catch a glimpse of Him. A Saturday. The crying and cursing may have put me in a hospital bed and turned me into just another crumple on the floor, amongst notebook papers and chalk dust and chewing gum. But it keeps my head clear. The classroom is full of negative air but at least it ain't in my home. But what to say now? Who to complain to? I don't want to see a therapist anymore. I worked it out. I'm working it out. I've got friends like no other. 125 healthy pounds. My skin will clear up, one day. I'll pass them all to 9th grade. Smiling, I'll wave goodbye.