There's a woman sitting across the desk from you,

With eyes too big for her head and a smile to wide for her heart.

You're sitting here, with her, once more,

Because you punched little Miss Take-Juice-Boxes-That-Aren't-Mine teeny bopper

Right in her perfect teeth.

"An outlet," she says, "An outlet for all that energy."

She hesitates a bit too long before she says 'energy,' and slides a little red book towards you

With two fingers, like shes pushing away a deat rat that the cat dragged in.

So you sit at the dinner table, getting carpal tunnel as you try to think of words you don't know

To describe things you haven't seen to people you don't care about.

You'd never tell that stuck up woman, but honestly, it was much more fun

Than getting stitches put into your knuckles

And having Kennedy's left incisor pulled out.

Years later, lean back in a chair and listen to the boy of your dreams

Talk about how much he hates the color of his eyes

When all you can think is that it's the same shade

That laces his breath, his laugh, the coffee staining his jeans.

You'd tell him that exactly if he'd listen.

Look over the water, swinging your legs back and fourth

A metronome keeping track of the seconds you waste

Scribbling notes so quickly they look like a different language

Into a dollar-tree notebook with the plastic cover coming off.

Scratching words to a teenaged anthem using a pen

With barely any ink left.

You glance back at the first page now and then,

Reading the lines once more

Of which joint in your left hand they pulled out somebody elses tooth,

And how you damn well weren't sorry.