M. Hank

Cursed.

Am I cursed?

Cursed to tie myself to people, swearing that they’re going to be different.

Only for resentment to grow like ivy, sentencing me to a place of discontent.

I’ve called it paranoia.

When I think of the color green, I think of the trees behind my school. In kindergarten, when kids were cruel and words hurt more than sticks or stones, the trees were there.

I made tea this morning.

I put the leaves in, watching the steam dance with childlike wonder.

I returned to my laptop, staring at a half finished chapter, the bags under my eyes more apparent than ever.

Moving on is different for everyone, and eventually, you’ll never think of them again.

Is what I hear from everyone.

I always said that it’d be the best day when I leave this school

But I’m not so sure now.

Sure, it wasn’t always easy,

But I gained so much good:

The best teacher I’ve ever had.

The confidence I always needed.

I will be the court jester

But when you remind me of my past

My lungs refuse to laugh

Now I fall quiet

A sad smile dances on my lips

As I glance at you with pain in my eyes