I hear a slight buzzing through the walls
as the tips of my fingers click against the keyboard.
Now and then a door crashes open
to the sound of end-of-the-year chatter
just before footsteps fade into another shatter.
But all I do is silently lie here,
reminiscing about the four years I’ve spent
in the building that lies below.
This is where I grew up.

No,
I did not spend my childhood roaming these halls,
nor did I begin the tricks of my trade,
but this is where a naïve 17-year-old girl
was carved into a woman of strength.
This is where I made myself who I am,
and this is where I struggled the whole way,
having nothing to do with a single class period
spent here.

And now as the rain begins to pour above,
slowly leaking into the cracks of these concrete walls
similar to the scars I carry inside my chest,
I am proud that they are symbols of my past,
For a scar is a wound that has healed
but simply left a mark behind.

The marks from these puddles never seem to fade,
so we avoid them.
We do not write our deepest thoughts there,
because they just get washed away.
I think I avoid the scars
for fear of them reopening
and myself washing with it.

This is the place where I was given life.
This is where it was taken away.
And this is where I fought to retrieve it.

As much as I hate this place,
as many good memories are harbored here
that I don’t let myself think of,
as many painful memories I've had to forgive,
as many selfish memories I’ve had to overcome…
I still think I’ll miss it when I’m gone.