I smell the white chalk dust, which I hear
Against the board, and the sound of pencils moving fast
I hear her voice in the distance, still
My body is confined to a blue plastic chair; my cell
And a wooden desk.
My mind is at the vanity mirror this morning.
I think she talks of grids, and while my peers
Chart it out on graph paper
In their notebooks
I remember the razor blades and dried up blood
And the charted graph I have on my arm
I’m wearing a navy blue, cotton shirt; its sleeves covering the gauze
And it hides my well-kept secret.
Why has she stopped talking? Does she know?
She wants to confirm I’m following.
I understand every word, term, and concept
I’ve got parallel lines and perpendicular too
I know how to graph and how to read charts.
Only yours is in pencil,
And mine is blood.