kajsa ㅇㅅㅇ

35

It’s a new day.

That means it’s a fresh start— or so they say.

But what about that overdue project that marks my worth down by thirty-five points?

What about the fact that I’m behind on my homework and still can’t solve for x in the world’s unforgiving equations?

Every single day I come here, thirty five hours a week, 35 weeks a year, and I give it everything I have.

All I’ve got left is a hard line where a smile used to be, an uneven heartbeat broken to the school’s pleasure, and a fifteen pound bag of burdens because my dark green locker is still broken and nobody cares to fix it. 

It’s just one kid. She’ll be fine.

Every single day I come here and take notes until my wrists groan, until my fingers bruise. I listen until my head aches and I can hardly think straight. 

Every single day I come here and see thirty-five angry red slashes on her arms and legs–and today, three are fresh. It startles me and instills a fear I’ve never felt before. What has changed my hate into worry? Am I more human than I thought? 

Or am I less?

I should help her, but in a way that’s quiet and won’t draw any attention. I’ll have to do it later, because every day I come here hoping it will be better, hoping against hope against hope that something has changed. 

Every day I kindle that hope just so it can be drowned again. 

They control everything. Their word is final, and you’d best not argue. 

Don’t make noise.

Don’t make a mess.

Don’t turn in your green sheet late.

Oh, and if you do?

Thirty-five extra minutes tacked onto the back of eight bloody hours.

They summarize my day on a singular slip of bright white paper, strip away my choices until the only one I have left is what to put on my lunch tray. 

Will I eat it? 

Probably not, because I’ve only got thirty-five minutes to make as many choices as I possibly can before I’m shoved back into the mold. 

I can’t waste a precious minute feeding a body and mind that aren’t mine to control.

I wait for that thirty-five minute lunch break every day, every eight hour day of sitting in a chair and being talked at, waiting for those four hollow, monotonous tones to tell us we’re free to go home. 

I wait for those thirty-five minutes so I can be free from the chains that bind me to somebody else’s agenda. 

And every day I hope that maybe that thirty-five minutes can stretch into forty. I hope that maybe something, anything, will change.

It turns out that’s impossible, because there are now thirty slashes on her wrist and five deep slashes in my heart. 

Thirty-five is the number that haunts me every single day. 

It must be the number of Hell. 

I am from wind and its tales of fjords and icy seas, 

from the extreme hot and cold that occasionally meet for tea and become something quite pleasant.

I am from the chimes that sing along with the birds,

adding their melody to the beautiful cacophony of spring.

I am from books that I have read,

from hearing Mom’s voice at 8:00 sharp that it is time for read-aloud.

I am from bursting with excitement when Dad steps in through the door

and dropping whatever I am doing to envelop him in the tightest hug possible.

I am from pencils and crayons

melted wax and puzzle presses

from glow in the dark liquids in little plastic tubes

from finger paint and popsicles and bubble baths.

I am from Lines,

from black dresses with glittering, shimmering skyline sequins

from five victories back to back 

and nothing yet to tarnish our fame.

I am from the pictures on my wall,

the ones I drew and put up to bring out the yellow curtains on the window that’s always open in the spring.

I am from the keyboard set up near the far wall, the one with light and bouncy keys

that adds an artificial click to a once natural, classical melody.

I am from the pink hair iron in my bathroom, 

from the mosaic hairbrush that keeps my hair soft.

I am from the bright blue sky that spills in to meet me each morning,

from “I am worthy” stuck dazzlingly upon the mirror.

I am from strong bark

From more branches than most and even more leaves

From roots that stretch toward the core of the earth

And could never be chopped down.

"It sucks to have an ex best friend
You hurt me worse than any break up did
I hear your name and I'm 13 again
Cryin' in my bed
Thinkin' how did I get here again?"

"So to my ex-best friend
I thought I'd know til the end
Sorry I know things aren't going as we planned
To my once ride or die
The one who always knew me right
We would swear it'd always end up you and I
We really messed up this time"

"Oh oh
Now you don't know me at all
You left without warning
Always thought that it'd be love
That was gonna mess me up
Didn't think it'd hurt this much
When best friends break up