Amber- I thought you were a pharmacist?
As I'm getting my books from my locker before first period, Mr. Eisenhower approaches me. He's the school guidance counselor, and even looks the part. With his graying hair, crinkly eyes, and potbelly, he seems just like an inviting grandpa. (In a school that's probably a hundred years old, nearly everyone does.)
"Hello, Mia. How are you?"
"I'm fine," I say cheerily, hoping he'll leave me alone.
"Your teachers say that your grades are dropping, and you don't seem very enthusiastic about school anymore."
This isn't a question. I really don't have to answer. But I do anyway, because I just want to end this conversation.
"Yeah, well, high school. Have you ever met a kid who likes it?"
Mr. Eisenhower smiles. "True, true. But you seem down lately. Well, if you ever need to talk, my office door is open to you."
He walks away, and I head to class with the tardy bell ringing in my ears. But instead of feeling relief that he left me alone... I want to scream. There's a rage born of despair clawing at my insides.
Why didn't he try harder? Doesn't he know that he has to push more? But he just left. Assuming that little, broken me is strong enough to do what's right and get help.
Yet again, I wonder- do people really see me, do they care? Do they look past the veil hiding the broken shards? And if nobody actually cares, why am I here? I must not be worth much.
The flood of doubt fills me, pulling me under, asking me if I'm good enough. I don't have an answer.
Anger is so much easier to deal with.
You don't see my hurt
You don't see my pain
You don't see everything you take
You don't see my feelings
You don't see my home
You don't see and you don't know
You don't see what your words do
You don't see me cry
You don't see the way I sigh
You see only my fault
You see what you want
You see the fake me I haunt
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Life's tough. I try to be tougher.
Broken legs but I chase perfection
These walls are my blank expression
My mind is a house I'm trapped in
And it's lonely inside this mansion