This is how to run a stick of Chapstick
down the black boxes on your scantron
so the grading machine skips the wrong
answers. This is how to honor roll. Hell,
this is how to National Honor Society.
This is being voted “Most Likely to Marry
for Money” or “Talks the Most, Says the
Least” for senior superlatives. This is
stepping around the kids having panic
attacks in the hallway. This is being the
kid having a panic attack in the hallway.
This is making the A with purple moons
stamped under both eyes. We had to try.
This is telling the ACT supervisor you have
ADHD to get extra time. Today, the average
high school student has the same anxiety
levels as the average 1950’s psychiatric
patient. We know the Pythagorean theorem
by heart, but short-circuit when asked
“How are you?” We don’t know. We don’t
know. That wasn’t on the study guide.
We usually know the answer, but rarely
|—||HIGH SCHOOL By Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)|
that still make you beautiful in my eyes;
For your daybreak eyes and nightfall smiles;
For your bruised heart that continues to beat
and give love even when it has suffered too much already;
For your crudeness and bitterness; at the same time,
for your timidity and geniality;
For your rough hands, chapped lips,
messy hair, and weary shoulders;
For your attentiveness and sometimes lack of it;
For your incandescent hues and ethereal warmth;
For your past you long to bury and
your future you wish to attain;
For who you are right now;
Despite my fear of drowning,
you are the uncharted waters I yearn to swim in.
I want to unearth your hidden passions and shadowed follies.
I want to unravel your pages,
tracing where your heart first shattered,
reading how you lost and found,
pinpointing when you fell twenty feet below,
and memorizing why your eyes get sad.
I want to see how your lips curve into a smile,
how your hands cup a handful of lilies,
how your eyes crinkle with laughter,
and how your arms carry your favorite books.
I want to learn you.
I want to love you.
I want to make you realize how beautiful you are to me.
Despite your fear of unworthiness,
you are my sky, my lighthouse,
my road map, and my home.
|—||It’s Kind of a Funny Story (via hefuckin)|