In school, they teach you math and science, but they don't teach you about boys who pick apart your heart like flower petals, singing,
"I love her not, I love her not, I love her not."
My teachers did not show me how to pick myself up off the ground when he leaves. They did not teach me how to delete your text messages, burn your letters, and tear apart your pictures.
When I was in school, they did not teach me that smiles are fragile, and that once they're broken, they take years to repair.
I was not taught about boys like you, who are gentle with scarred skin. I was not warned of boys like you, who cower in heaps on their bed when they're lonely.
Nor did my mother tell me how to be careful with my mind full of secrets.
Never in school did they tell me that bed sheets can get lonely when he's not there to fill the space.