Another Reason I Hate That Class - 03/10/11

It’s like delicate egg yolks
Wrapped in barbed wire
Shedding my insides
And it isn’t usually like that

Painful, sure
But not like this.
I shouldn’t be waking up
At 2 am,
Screaming and crying,
Because there is something wrong with that.

It supposedly stress,
Which I would deny,
But all my denial this week
Has been used too soon.
It was drawn like blood
When I held my arm to a heater
Until it went numb.
I wasn’t going to say anything
But apparently
That’s denial too,
Like cross bred plants
Still being organic.

In my history class,
We’re learning about all that,
And all the other things
Wrong with all of everything
In all of history.
I don’t understand
Why anyone would want to
Sit through an hour of pointless debate
Over events long passed,
Just steaming
Angry
Furious
As I hold my arm to the heater
And hope it burns and hurts,
But it just goes numb
And everyone is disappointed
When the bell rings.

I heard my English teacher,
While reciting a beautiful poem
That she had written,
Frightenedly mumble “fuck”
A wisp of what I’ve been told is
A powerful word.
Like someone was going to take offence,
Like a little anger would end everything,
Like if maybe someone got mad
And did something
Something might change
And like that was a bad thing.

You know what I think?
I think too much.
And I think all the time.
And I think in words,
And rhymes
With breaks in the lines
Like my whole life is just one poem
One depressing poem
That just doesn’t know when
To end.
And I think that I fall flat on my face
When there’s something I need to face
That I slip up
When I need to stick up.
That I pull out
When it’s time to put in.
That I can’t get angry
Except at myself,
And even that is slowly jerked into
The sadness of sticky red fingers.
That I want to bleed
But I’m afraid of blood.
That I do the worst
When I’m not paying attention
And then feel the best.
That you still don’t get
What I’m talking about.
That I really wish you did.
That I knew you wouldn’t
And thought that anyways,
Wrote this anyways,
So I could have another excuse to
Hate my poor, pitiful self.

So there should be some hope somewhere
And this is supposed to be the stanza
Where I add it,
But what do I know
About hope and love?
What do I know about happiness?
All I have is a heater
And the sharp point of a forgotten staple.