My head hurts. Counting days.
I run dripping paste,
more exaggerated than Pollack,
to spread on converse and heels.
I begin to open jars in June classes,
and April locker rooms,
clasping cheap cologne and scents of sweat
Next I grab the tape recorders,
for the jokes you will long to hear,
and the duct tape for the runners.
Later in the bathrooms and behind closed doors,
I will pick flasks to collect chronicles,
in juvenile drops of drama.

Because in these walls you call prison I prance.
Outside a puzzle.
Only fixed in a mind.
So let me hide the pieces for you.

Because this here,
High School,
is refuge.
Outside a toxic war.
Our skin, and knits, and streaks,
and jerseys are all the same here.
But outside their overalls are different.
Tainted, and they will not pull us apart.

Stay.
But I, out of fear that the ode was not enough,
run through hallways with glue guns and cameras.
Trying to grasp safety and ignorance.
Biting the lemon during graduation.
Pretending it sweeter.