Striped t-shirts are my favorite thing to wear. Black on white, blue on orange, yellow and purple. I'm a color wheel kind of girl. They call me 'artsy' and pin me to the wall with a label. It reminds me of the butterfly wings fastened inside glass cases in museums, they always make me cry. I shuffle from space to space, I'm a lightning bug bouncing off the clear jar sides. But I don't light up, and high school hallways don't radiate, shiver, or glow.

Wandering aimlessly, ticking off the clich├ęs on my fingers as they march past (in the form of the slightly bored student body). I'm not really sure where I'm going. Sometimes the bell becomes a siren's wail and I look around for blue and firecracker red flashes, but they're nowhere, of course. Tricking myself is a hobby of mine, study halls are perfect for this. Enraptured daydreams for forty-three minutes only leave me sleepy, but I like pretending I can feel the sweat slipping (could pass for tears) down my cheeks from the white hot lights. Maybe you've guessed it by now, but the stage is crying, screaming, sighing in my ears.

Another mid day venture into the swarm (like bees, or wasps, stingers just as sharp) and the empty spaces & wide-open faces are begging and pleading for some vibrancy. I wish that I could color in and outside the lines with my prismacolor pencils, and bring some life to this place.