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Welcome (part 8)

I run until I can run no more. Then I stop and realize I left my bag, with my note book in it at my desk in my second period. I turn around and race back, hoping I can make it in time to retrieve my bag and get to my English class.

Of course, luck is never on my side. I'm late. As always. Mrs. Jones looks at me with the same look she always gives me. She's looking for more bruises, as always. She motions for me to hurry and sit down. I do. I open my bag and pull out my journal, settling into my nondescript desk. I feel safe here. This nondescript desk, in a nondescript classroom is...wait, what is that? In the corner of my desk is a small drawing. maybe my desk isn't as nondescript as I thought. I scrunch my nose, trying to make out the picture. It's...me.

Wierd. Whatever. I push it out of my mind and open my journal to the next available blank page, but what should have been a blank page now has words all over. No, not just words. It's a poem:

beautiful, though hidden
she dances in the shadows
as day passes into night
the music, a drug
bringing her to life
that empty, hollow girl
soon filled with a fire
freed from her H*ll
the music flows around her
water in a river's bed
maelting and forming to every curve
the long, slow path
down the side of her waist
to the sharp, angled edges
of her shoulder blades
every inch of flesh
kissed by music's notes
she raises her arms
begins to clap
as she celebrates with
her moonlit dance



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