Tuesday, June 9, 2009
My bed seems so inviting right now. This place is too cold and there are no heaters except for some deadly gas piece of metal. I slowly lean back against the cold, hard wall to avoid falling. I prop my feet up against the edge of the single blue table which I've began to call my own over the past two years. The clock above the whiteboard isn't perfectly straight, it confuses me with the time. I don't know if it's working, I can't hear it. It's mocking my senses. They won't shut up. I don't see why all these dark, long haired beings can't sit and think and write without making a sound. Or without shuffling their checkered skirts against these used plastic chairs. My knuckles are purple from writing in this weather. The paper feels so smooth underneath my palm as it crosses the page. All that enters my nose is an icy chill, no room for any other females scent. My bed seems so inviting right now.