My walk to class is through a mustard gas cloud
That jokes as it chokes me
That my imposter feeling is confirmed by the others
Swinging dicks that crash into my cheeks
And by the time I reach the door I can but crawl along a glass-smashed floor.
This place is a biological weapon against mental health.
No amount of music
Slow or velvet or sweet or harsh noise
Can drown out the dread drone of ‘yeah, i’m okay’
That reverberates the way laughs are meant to
On walls covered in itgetsbetter graffiti
Which is made worse by how faint it’s getting.
There will be a day where these knots of words and buckled knees
Will prove you profitable
And those rosy, anxious cheeks will be your selling point
But till you hit that graduating puberty
You will be locked in a weak adolescence
That is made all the more bubble-like
In the way it bursts your insides.