bumblebea

I am eight. I sit across from my mom in my pediatrician’s office on the paper-covered table. The paper is crinkled and uncomfortable. My mother’s head is cupped in her hands as the pediatrician leaves the room.

I have this teacher...

This teacher is rude and sexist 

They get mad if you don't know the answer to something that they haven't explained yet...

They never get mad at certain students, they have favorites...

I wish that I would sit at home, 

A lovely book in hand, 

And look upon the struggling, 

I had once been so damned. 

A book lover who reads by flashlight and dreams of living in a cottage by the sea, 

and running a bookstore with tinted windows and plants spilling down shelves, 

I take my coffee sweet, 

It's less bitter on my taste, 

It takes a little honey, 

And a dash of milk to make. 

I'm scared.

I can't believe we're here

Again.

I can't believe this is reality

Again.

Four years

They say.

It's only four years.

But it's four years

Of a living hell for me.

They laugh