The Inevitability of Punching Walls

It's like you know what's coming around that corner, after the hug in the hallway from a drunk friend at school, you know where you're going. You know where you're headed, it's like having a premonition of the worst kind. You just know that knuckles going to feel like it's bursting the fuck open, because you've chipped the bone so many times. You know you're going to wait, on the toilet, for any girls to leave. You know you're going to hit it once with your right hand for the pain, and then with the left, just to practice so you're not weaker on one side then the other.

It's like watching that movie, MADD, on drunk drivers. And then watching the guy on the third screen over roll a joint. It's feeling the taste of oregano turn into the taste of weed in your fucking mouth in cooking class. It's like losing everything you ever fucking fought for. Ever fucking fought for. Ever fucking fought the fuck for.

It's like hearing stories of sniffed pepper, and feeling the burn of cocaine in your fucking nose. It's like tasting the chemical residue of hairspray and wondering what the fuck you just did. It's like you're fucking falling to fucking pieces and no one gives a fucking shit about how what they do affects you.

It's like a fucking chain reaction that you can't fucking stop, and it hurts so fucking bad. It's like you've spent your year bottling everything up inside to try to stop the fucking pain, to try to stop wondering why they look at you, what they say, what they do when you're not there. It's like trying to stay after school just to know everyone's plans, just to know who you can fucking trust.

It's like..

It's like..

It's like...

FUCK!