When I Walk In


You can see most of the moods that I am in every day. Whether you're ready to introduce a lesson from hell, or let us relax through any means. I can put on the brightest smile so you could be fooled that I'm okay. But frankly, nothing is ever that simple for me. If you think its okay, it's probably not. If you think nothing's wrong, everything is. Because I can't see how you think anyone can be prepared for anything you throw at us, despite whatever has happened between waking up and before I step in that fucking door. You have no idea that I could be bleeding under all those warm sweatshirts I like to wear. You have no idea whether or not a few minutes ago, I was crying in a bathroom stall. You could never understand the stab that comes with the high expectations you give to us. As if I'm supposed to look at a problem with a smile on my face and say exactly what you want to hear. Even though inside, I'm begging for someone to set this room on fire so no one has to pay attention to me. It's against proper etiquette in this room to feel like screaming my lungs out. I'll be scolded for not paying attention because I'm too wrapped in the thought of killing myself. I'm trying to adjust to sitting in this hard, uncomfortable seat without the fabric of my clothes irritating my scars. I have to look at myself before I walk in, to make sure there's no indication on my face for anyone to ask if I'm okay. Because I'm not. I may seem like I'm doing well, but I'm falling apart at the seams like the old business attire you seem to enjoy wearing. My skin burns like the hot coffee you're addicted to drinking every morning. Everyone is trying to get me to decide what my life will be like in the future. And I don't know. I don't know who I'm going to be. I don't know if I'll get there. I'm so terrified about the things that are now, that my mind can't wrap around the stress-induced knife that might kill me later. So tell me, do you honestly think I'm fit to go anywhere? Or am I just an ignorant child who overthinks the smallest things? Could I be a valedictorian, or just another face on the obituary? When I walk in that door, should you ask me if I'm okay, or already know that I'm going to lie to you? While you're looking over everyone's papers, are you going to notice the sad drawings I seemed to erase before handing in? And do you feel bold enough to glance at my arms if they're not covered one day? Will you be able to notice the red rims around my eyes? Do I look okay to you?


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