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I have not raised my hand in years MAG
I have not raised my hand in years.
Mostly I sleep in the mornings
and intothe afternoons.
I cannot listen to everything I am supposed to know.
Youask me to learn from your mistakes.
You ask me to learn from chalk and ablackboard.
You ask me to learn from a keyboard and screen.
With neonlights and metal chairs and wooden rulers.
I have not raised my hand inyears.
You say it's normal.
Everything is normal these days.
We areaccepting skin and bones.
Purple, green, and black pills.
Closed eyes.Tightly shut eyes.
I speak with chapped lips
of all the journals I willnever fill,
of all the hands I will never hold,
of all the nights I liewhimpering and defeated
staring out my window
and lives I will neverhave.
Because I am too afraid to raise my hand
and ask for them.
Andmostly I sleep in the mornings
and into the afternoons.
Because when Isleep
I do not have to carry the weight of my questions.
Or the weight ofhaving so few answers.
And when I dream my hand is always up
and we are allawake
and I learn from your mistakes.
I open up and I am sitting in a metalchair
with a silent voice
in the last row of my classroom.
I have notraised my hand in years.
Because I know I will be wrong.
And I will laughlike a clown at everything I do not know.