I think I'll go across the sea,
And study music in Italy.
Leave with only the clothes on my back,
My jacket pocket full of little literatures.

Or should I study English arts,
In England?
I doubt I'd read much,
There's not a lot to see in a London fog.

Red for economics,  
green for English,  
white for ICT
your files stacked in my hands,  
pages filled with notes in your careful script
I never needed to ask; you just lent them
as if sharing knowledge meant sharing a part of you. 

A classroom of seventeen,  
but I only counted one.
I traced your desk with my fingertips,  
opened your pencil case just to see  
what colors you carried,  
what secrets lived between the erasers and sharpies.  

We worked in groups,  
side by side but never quite close enough.  
I stole glances when I thought you wouldn’t notice,  
but maybe you always did.  
Maybe that’s why you smiled so easily,  
why you never pulled away.  

Years have stretched between us,  
but high school still lingers like a cozy
dream  
I wake from too slowly.  
Your files, your laughter, your presence in the last row
they live in me
as if time forgot to take them when it took you.

She was August, I was February
months apart, but tied by the same number
Eleven, like a thread linking distant days,  
like Pepero sticks she loved,  
thin, sweet, and gone too fast.  

She was the girl who handed me slippers in the rain,  
who lent me her red, green, and white files,  
who sat in the third row while I sat in the first,  
but somehow, we always found our way to the same place.  

She was fries on one eventful canteen day,  
laughing about weight neither of us really cared about.  
She called herself Snorlax,  
but to me, she was Eevee  
full of possibilities, always shifting, always bright.  

She sent me memes, told me to wake up,  
to sleep early
to try again tomorrow
She saw Natsume in me
though I never watched Gakuen Alice to know why
Maybe she saw the quiet fire I never named.  

She was there,  
and then she wasn’t.  
Distance, time, then silence
life pulled us apart like a ribbon unraveling.  
But somewhere
in the space between eleven and eleven
she still lingers.

Education
Something that is revered for its ability to change people's lives for the better, help people escape poverty, change the world.

For me?
School almost killed me.

At face value, it doesn't make much sense.
I wasn't being bullied, ridiculed.
I excelled.

But without my identity as the "smart kid" and doing well in school, I thought I was nothing.
Had no other skills or values to contribute.
I tried hard to break free from this thinking,
Tried so incredibly hard,
But this feeling haunted me.
For many years.

I know that's harsh and not true, but my brain was hell bent on this reality.
So I pushed myself to untold lengths to excel in undergrad, tiptoeing on a balance beam, bad marks threatening to push me off the ledge.

No way to live.

Being out of school and in work I learned that I was so much more than a student.
A volunteer, friend, girlfriend, daughter, granddaughter, hiker, traveller, runner, baker, advocate, warrior.
This saved my life.

So it makes sense now back in full-time school again where memorization and multiple choice rules that I feel the familiar sensation that all I am is a student and a slave to school.
It makes sense the transition has been insanely difficult when I'm returning to what nearly killed me.

This time, I know better, I'm in control.
I will not allow school to take its toll.
I will protect myself and who I've grown to be,
and never let school be the end of me.

My 10th grade year,
Dad put my brother,
Tobin and I in a  
private school in  
Camarillo California.  
  
Mom sent us  
to live with him after  
we traded our  
education, back in  
Des Moines, for **** and  
sitting around  
listening to Led   
Zeppelin records in the  
basement.  
We had it all figured out.  
  
Before we started
a day of class, we  
went on a week-long   
skiing trip to  
Sequoia National Park.  
I loved that school.  
A passion grew in  
me for literature,   
Melville and Dickens,  
Dylan Thomas and the  
rest of the greats visited  
me in my dreams.  
They were good, gentle  
nights back then. 
 
I wrote a paper on  
Billy Budd, and received a C  
for my weak effort.  
Dad explained aspects of  
the story:  
plot  
theme  
antagonist  
protagonist  
and tragic character flaws.  
I didn’t get a C again on  
anything to do with  
literature.  
I was still inept  
with the numbers game.  
Math didn’t hold my  
Interest.  
It dog-paddled, then drowned in  
my budding poet brain.  
  
I had a gorgeous Dutch  
Girlfriend, Van Vleck or  
Van something or other.  
I acted in the play,  
and started at small   
forward on the   
basketball team.  
I even got into a  
fight with a kid for  
telling the principal that  
he sold me a little ****.  
I was suspended for a week,  
but Dad didn’t seem to  
mind that much.  

He gave me a copy of   
Don Quixote, and told   
me to write an essay a day.  
Back then, I was  
the prince of the private school.  
 I started to care about  
learning.   
The teachers taught with  
zeal and zest.  
The lust for literature was  
born in me  
beneath that smiling  
West Coast sunshine, and  
melancholy California fog.

Your presence feels like slow poison
I'm dying  
As I consume a dose of you daily

This year, lunchtime seems to drag on,
When previously, before I knew it, it was gone.
What has changed?
It isn’t time.
It’s the sorrowful realization,
That friends can fade,
Just like the rain,
Before you know it,
Gone.
The silence,
Deafening,
The consequences,
Terminal,
I’ll never be the same.

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Goes the bell flashing in the skittering crowd.
Surrounded by a ghost town, abandoned and forgetful.
Lined paper flutters through the hallway.

Empty cinder-block walls tower over the laminate,
Windowless cubbies cling onto their half-working outlets.
Irritation pulses in a scurry from jaw to wrist and ankle.

Aimlessly meandering through the tallied ceiling tiles,
Tired eyes weigh heavily on a ***** blackboard.
As empty seats are filled.
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