The hallway is alright.

My name was always 'Addison' but that one boy called me 'Addigail' 

and I still see him write it on the folds of faded blue lines which serves as a reminder 

that I was never just 'Addison'.

And I know none of you will comment,
because you're afraid of yourselves.

And yesterday I was a mystery to everyone,

but today everyone is a mystery to me.

Everyone who watches me, I don't know why or with what angst or appreciation.

You are all a mystery to me.

I got cat-called twice today, followed by the same anonymous "JACKIE O!" 

as if the fifth-grade revolution was taking over Lone Peak. 

A lot of eyes followed me. Even teachers.

As if my interior was hectic & everyone was allowed to diagnose me.

And I hate compliments because I still haven't learned how to reply to them

without 1 cup of sarcasm & 3 tablespoons of anxiety.

Today in AP Art, lightning struck in the corner where they mentioned me,

and somehow my hair fell in paint and Scarlet Carol was carrying my head to the sink to scrub it out and thank heavens for people like her.

For people like Trevor Powers, whose never thrown stones at anyone despite the wall they crushed him with.

For Brandon Robbins and the education he made off of strangers and broken silence.

For Rothko sharing her trundle in the cabin where we all figuratively found love, Idaho.

For Priscilla Belle and the black-and-white headband that introduced herself across a Timberline desk in a classroom thick with insecurity.

For Malcolm Carter, because he knows why.

For TigerLilly and the rose he gave me wrapped in tears, not just because I wore a uniform.

For you and you and you and them and him.

I don't know which of you are reading this, 

which of the improbable people that closed a circle around my empty shell, 9th grade.

I don't care anymore.

It's an anxiety that threatens to beat your skull in and my words prefer 

to reminisce when caring wasn't a hazard.

This isn't goodbye.

I'm not bitter.

I'm 30-some days from pushing Care completely out of my skull,

and your opinion may alter because I sit silent in the corner desk of the classroom,

but I'm this close to losing it.

To losing Care like she lost her virginity, 

quickly and easily,

gone without a ceremony, 

where only one person laughed for .02 seconds (on God's scale)

and it wasn't her.

Her definition in the almighty book was skewered and she cried to me about it,

but it only took .02 seconds to lose Care just as swiftly 

as she'd lost everything else.

And if yearbooks were dictionaries, what words would be scrawled under that picture of you?

I don't know.

I'm still going to write, and make eye contact with people 

who are expediting my thought process, 

but I've learned to hide insecurity behind a thick layer of adventure,

and a handful of hobbies that taste like cinnamon,

and if you don't do the same, the clock on the wall probably hates you 

and you're just keenly submitting to its Satan-theory control.

And it isn't hard to break a clock.