I glare at it
During last period,
Jumping too high
But not high enough
To reach the swinging rope.

I'm in history,
And some glazed-over teacher
Is pointing at the
Chalkboard which has
Tiny scratches that look like words
Scribbled all over.

But I don't look at my notes,
Because my neck is craning
Too far back
To look at the rope
That is
My two and a half hours of freedom.

A single note is released into the halls
And the students chace it
And I leap into the air
Because the rope
Is reachable
And I grab it.

I begin to climb.

I sit by you on the
Dirt-dusted tile floor
Outside the gym
And we work on algebra
Or english if it's a good day.

And don't get me wrong,
I hate the familiar stench of homework
As much as
The next
Hunchbacked highschooler.
The rope stings my hands
While I climb.
You numb the burn.

But I have practice
And the rope is easy to climb
And I reach the top
In two and a half hours
And you get into
The yellow sardine can
That goes to your neighborhood.

And all of my muscles ache when you go.

High school isn't what everyone said it would be.
It's not the time of your life.
It's not necessarily the worst either.
Teachers hold you accountable for every little detail.
You won't finish every assignment.
You won't be in love
when you believe you are.
You won't care if you get detention.
But there's always that one class that is the best out of your high school
experience.
It happens to be French.
There's a group of us
and we all sit in the two middle rows.
Two girls
three boys.
We're all fairly smart.
Four nerds,
one who is able to get by.
We laugh
and annoy each other.
Sarcastic arguments,
fake fights,
and loud voices.
We question the stupid things
we do.
Flinging pencils,
taking phones,
stealing papers
to help each other out.
We escalate to
tripping,
kicking,
flicking.
But as we tell others
who are
not in the
class,
they look at us like we're crazy.
Which we probably are.
They think we're abusive,
and that the teacher isn't in control,
and that we hate each other.
They're wrong, though.
I guess
it's probably
one of those
"You gotta be there"
things.
Because it really is.
While we do annoy and anger each other-
we have an odd friendship
that we don't even consider
a friendship.
We're classmates
who have fun
by being
stupid and obnoxious.
That is why French has topped every other class that was apart of my high school experience.

I met a lady who was a nose
And mountains that were eyes,
I asked them both a question,
It was the mountains that replied;

"Melting moonrise--
We quiver at your river,
For fear of falling in--
But we can't step away from the reflection,
Rejection is surmise--"

Father,
forgive me,
for I have sinned.*
My skirt slides across the wood seat
of the confession booth.
I don't want him to ask where I've been
as I've been away.
I am back because these are worse.
I've laid my former confessions
to rest.
Father,
did you miss me?
He stays silent.
My throat clears.
I've been away, for awhile
He doesn't ask where I've been.
But I want him to know-
know that I've been gambling with
the devil.
Do you hear
those wedding bells,
Father?
I've been getting heavy with the devil.
Did you miss me Father?
Visuals of him biting his tongue
circle my head.
Father, don't
bless me
because I have sinned.
I'm a walking sin,
and Father knows this.