It seems like                                          everyone wants
                 to be                           loved                       and                              I
         don't                                             get        why                                       because
          it                                             ­          seems                                                 like
         nothing                                                          ­                                          but
                tro­uble                                                             ­                       to have
                        someone                             ­                                       with
                     ­              that                                                           much
                                      affection             ­                               for
                              ­               the                                      most
                   ­                              wretched                 thing
                                                           ­   you      know
                                                ­                     of.

Why am I here?
Two am and I'm wide awake,
only the light from the computer screen
like the last three nights,
except tonight
it's youtube making noise
rather than friends,
it's sandpaper and pocket knives hurting
rather than sentiment and memories,
it's terror causing tremors in my hands
rather than sleepiness.

Why am I here?
42 days without a scratch
(from myself; only bruises)
and now I need to wear long socks again,
let people think I'm incapable
of bathing the cat with any degree of control,
hope no one's had their coffee
when they see me first thing in the morning.

Why am I here?
Just the thought of sentiment
sends me reeling
and there it is in black ink,
untidy scrawl,
only instead of a last-hope plea
it's a Valentine's card,
instead of "mashiara" (my lost love)
I'm a propper significant other,
instead of an old painted luck charm
it's a Hallmark card that still smells of printing press.

Why am I here?
Two weeks now
and I want to be done
with the constant attention that closes in,
threatens to expose my torments
to people I'd rather protect
only this time
I'll cease to respond
rather than fight over it,
I'll isolate myself from the world
rather than  pretend that I want to,
I'll die
rather than watch the world unravel before me.

Why am I here?

Is this what we've become?
Scarcely a word all week,
two full sentences mar
the perfect lines:
"morning"
"Morning"
"Pleasant night?
"Eh.  You?"
"Eh."
"Good luck."
"Same to you."
The monotony of the academic realities
rivalled only by the monotony of conversation
as days go by with only those
exchanges
deemed necessary:
"Night."
"Night."
Because really,
we don't know how to talk anymore.

There I am, as every day, binder out and papers everywhere, backpack opened to the candy stash that badly needs replenishing, hair a mess, mind a mess, too tired to concentrate on the work I have to do.  Enter the usual companions:  a health class, a couple ditchers hoping to finish a paper by fourth block, the girl with bruises on her arms and makeup in her hair, the two antisocial boys who sit in opposite corners with identical lunches (peanut butter and Capri Sun), the Whovian who puts away the returned books, and my lot of social misfits (there's three of us).  We take up a computer and a table each day from 10:42 until 11:18, engaged in our various tasks.  Through funny pictures and a book of proverbs and our lunch of backpack candy and the constant awareness that we are the hopeless dregs of high school society, we muse on existence, point out each others' problems (it makes our own seem less isolated), and make idiots of ourselves all below a whisper.  No one tells us to go away or stop showing up or to shut up already about our problems, likely because everyone's got their **** to deal with and I'm beginning to see that everyone respects that this is our way of dealing with it.  People who come to the library at lunch don't want to involve themselves in someone else's life; they want to isolate themselves for just a few minutes from the ******* around them and accomplish whatever they came to accomplish before facing the real world once more.

There's a cat on the coffee table
but my coffee's in my hand.
Why is that?
The coffee in my hand is shaking
while the cat is steady as can be.
I'm wide awake
while the table's peacefully asleep.
Maybe that's why.

There's a dog on the floor
but my feet are on the couch.
Why is that?
The floor never moves
though the couch gets shoved about.
The floor is firm, determined
while the couch is soft and pliant.
Maybe that's why.

My sister's in the kitchen
but I am in the living room.
Why is that?
My sister has purple hair
though mine remains a drab blondish.
My sister's still in middle school (eighth grade)
while high school has taught me harsh realities.
Maybe that's why
the dog follows her
and my cat's asleep on the coffee table.