bumblebea

maybe one day i'll see you

at a class reunion 20 years in the future

you'll have gotten taller than i am in heels

your hair will no longer be curled and bleached but

I just need a paper and some pencils. 
Maybe some pillows. 
And a cozy light. 

I write with a knife

It cuts into my heart

Spilling it onto the paper

My emotions

My thoughts

Painted with blood

Once I start

There is no stopping

I bleed

Begging for someone

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.