Nausea


spreads when I think I have 
another day of eighth grade.  
The hall looks quiet.  
As soon as I’m midway down it, 
out come four boys.  They hate me.  
I don’t like sports and can’t hide it.  
I like music but not their kind.  Craig

leads them.  In Biology he knuckles
my head often.  This is funny, 
I guess, as many others laugh.
At 13 I find it strange that I now 
revel in murder.  While I’m told 
to work on problems with numbers, 
I add up all the kids I’d love to kill--
if I could get away with it.  It must 
be done without mercy.  
No sleeping pill overdose
where angels come and quietly

open death’s door. Let me see
terror bugs in their eyes— 
I know I’ll get my books
ready for school tomorrow,
homework done, planning how 
to make an escape,
a long one, to my grave.