Walked into the bathroom, expecting to see the room crammed with girls
screeching, smiling at me, checking their foundation and wondering
why hasn't he flirted with me yet?
Instead, all that's left is the ten posters taped on the wall
with stock photos of black skirts
telling me the difference between wrong or long.
Yeah, there are no more mornings of waking up to the sound of
A Capella hymns and kids I've never met laughing at
things I've never said before
no more 5 'o clock practices full of winces, trips, laughing, sweating, and thinking
no more 7:30 pm concerts where
my heart bounces around like a dead animal
no control left, and
I'm running in the halls wearing black and white, but thinking gray
no more taco bell runs right after, when I'm getting cinnamon sugar on my skirt and counting measures in my head.
And certainly no more days of just sitting on the bleachers
my head and heart too full of sputters of laughter to worry
about whether my melody is correct.