“Your photos must have meaning.
If all they are is pretty, they’ll never
change anything. And that’s what we want, isn’t it?
We want things to change.”
These words poured out of my teacher’s inflamed mouth,
casted their accusing eyes on me,
and I turned my empty head,
pretended not to feel the sting of each letter
colliding with my thin body,
and I refused to look at the blood,
rising under my clear skin
where each fragment had hit.
When I evacuated the stifling classroom,
I filled my chest with
air clean of his overbearing expectations.
In the bathroom,
I scrubbed my glass skull free of each syllable that he had pressed there.

Outside,
there were violets blooming.
It was as pretty as a picture, so I made it into one.

Change?
Please just leave me be.