The teacher asks a question that makes you panic
as if you've just seen a stranger outside your bedroom window
in the dead of the night.
The question is nothing knowledge level:
it's something personal.
The teacher may or may not know the question causes you
to tremble head to toe.
Eyes like daggers that attempt to lock contact with yours
as you look everywhere else and come up with your lie.
You weren't given any warning
and you're caught off guard.
You feel bad for being untruthful,
but the question cannot be answered in honesty
without severe consequences.
Like being forced to talk to the counselor
and having your parents called.
Oh, God.
No.
You feel bad for being secretive,
even though you know it's none of the teacher's business.
You hate that you're weak.
You hate that even if you did answer the teacher's stupid question,
you wouldn't be able to answer the ones that would inevitably follow.
You hate yourself.
But that's obvious;
that's why the question arose in the first place.
Yes, teacher.
I hurt myself.
But you can't see a quarter of the scars
that this waste of mass and energy contains.