american public school gothic
- there’s an old slice of pizza on the stairs leading up to the second floor. no one knows how it got there, nor where it came from. it blinks at you as you walk by.
- there’s a menacing beeping, always present, in the back of your mind. cold sweats break out on your arm and you feel like running. you realize it’s just the pacer test, echoing from the gym.
- the textbooks are falling apart. their spines crack in your grip and you pretend you can’t hear their screams.
- the hallways are crowded. students stare at you, their eyes dark and fearful, refusing to move as you push your way to class. they stand silent, begging you to draw blood. you mumble an “excuse me” and move on.
- you stand for the pledge and there’s no flag there. there are no flags anywhere. the teacher stands with her hand over her heart and looks to the wall, her eyes unseeing. the flag is gone, and soon she will be too.
- it smells like tuna in the cafeteria, but when you enter, there’s no tuna. just the crushing weight of existence and the idea that your entire life means nothing. you leave with a milk and a sandwich.
- the health curriculum is outdated. the teacher turns on a movie from the 80s and spits in an ancient tongue. you pretend to take notes and try not to feel the fire in his gaze.
- the football players got new uniforms, but they have consumed their mass and energy already. they await hungrily on the field, chained to the goal posts, their mouths frothing. new uniforms are once again ordered and the drama club still has no funding.
- college is on the horizon. it is a bloody red and it’s arms are already outstretched. run to it. you have nowhere else to go.