As the door shuts and the footsteps die...
I can breathe
Repression is-- as a matter of fact--
Very intriguing
Poker faces come in all shapes and sizes
Savannah (who writes about Herself in parentheses just because she saw it in another poem) hates feeling worthless
Don't you?
My tastebuds are ripped raw
From packets of FunDip
and trying to belong
Words words words
Push across tongues abrasively
Is this even self-expression?
The clock counts down the hours until her trig final
Savannah (who underestimated herself) sees hope in the sunshine
And maybe the summer too

I can breathe. (especially with the door closed...)