A dark,
empty classroom.
Sitting here alone,
feeling no different
than when it was full.

I've never been scared like this before,
not until now,
never has someone known my secrets
Never has someone known how damaged I am.
It terrified me.
My poetry,
my true heart,
sewn together with scraps,
splayed out for strangers to see.
But that's just it,
strangers.
I'll never have to come face to face with them,
I'll never have to hide
and blatantly lie to them.
But what happens when I come face to face
with someone who knows my writing best?

I felt scared.
I was worried this past-stranger
would let something slip

The people I see daily must never know I'm hurt,
must never know
my nights of insomnia
are filled with tears,
and must never question my bitter humor.

But I was lucky,
lucky that the stranger,
like everyone else,
simply doesn't care.

I look at this empty classroom,
desks in shambles and dusty books
with plain walls,

it sends an eerie shiver up my spine
with the creeping question of
"what if?"

What if someone cared?
I can only pray
that will never happen.