turning the pages sounds so loud in this empty room
even with runners going by and the janitor cleaning.
no one seems to care about the page being turned;
they're whispering and passing notes while the supervisor isn't looking.
I want to be out there, running,
but I'm in here, writing.
I've never wanted to run so badly in my pathetic existence
but I've never been stuck in detention with so many people I don't like.
(i've almost never been stuck in detention at all)
my leg won't stop twitching,
my body is sweating.
my hands are shaking and clammy;
I just want to leave this closed-up little room.
my breathing is suddenly uneven and chills run over my body
as my heart beats against my trachea.
my handwriting has shrunk to 8 pt tahoma
trying to get my mind off of all this.
I'm trying to convince myself not to quit
what I haven't even started.
seven minutes of hell, a call home
and then peace.