i sit with my legs uncrossing on the toilet seat, 7th period
smells of puberty
of wasted ambition and scathing regret of everything
of whispered secrets and sore thighs, ***** dripping out between your lips into the bowl
of tortured angst, of pulling your skin taut and drawing the blade against you over and over, for trusting someone like him
of hope that the next day will be better than today (it isn't)
of high school.