She sits in my history class,

And never meets my eye,

Like I would see something there,

That she didn’t want known.

Her binder’s cover,

Says in pink and blue letters,

“Cool kids don’t need sleep.”

And I wonder if that,

Is what she tells herself,

When she can’t sleep at night,

Like that excuse of a lie,

Can make everything better.

I know that,

She never meets anyone’s eye,

Not even her boyfriend’s,

Who she sits with at lunch.

And I think I know the reason why,

Is because they would see,

Dark circles,

Vainly concealed with make-up,

And old,

Tired eyes.

Maybe she is afriad,

That she won’t be,

A cool kid anymore,

But a misift,

Who has a long named condition,

And a fear of sleep.

She pinches her pale cheeks,

In the bathroom before lunch,

And uses the same excuse,

“I’m tired.”

Yes girl,

You are,

You are tired of life,

And tired of being afriad,

Of sleeping.

So next time when you cry,

In the girls bathroom,

Don’t cry for him,

Who left you,

When he found out,

Or all your cool friends,

Who whispered in tight bunches,

Cry for yourself,

Because you are completely lost,

In life.


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