Lucid Class

Why am I here
In this class?
The chalkboard
Makes tears.
When I think of you
I die inside.
My arms are dead
As if of lethal injection
Or so it seems.
Eye is dry
Nose twitches
A cold breeze
Across my face.
And now someone else
Is speaking aloud
Why, if your voice
Makes me weep?
I feel like crying
For the thought
Of your torn
And mangled body.