Middle School (another draft)

I am beginning to reassemble, 
like I did before a school day, when
an eraser was just one more child
crushed in the bottom of a book bag:

pencils, two, aluminum tips chewed off,
teeth marks in garbage wood they use
when what they’re making is disposable. 
Every night, I’d jam textbooks in, corners
stressing limited space, arrange them 
by schedule, intending easy access because 
there wasn’t time to get to the locker, and 
the terror of too-lateness was too much.
The gouge in my right shoulder, where clavicle 
meets muscle, my own still under construction,
lugging that ink-stained bag of dried pens mixed 
with ones that worked, composition notebooks,
each color indicating something different 
I still had yet to learn. The binder of handouts,

three-inch rings that took fingertips hostage,
a blistering of ill-placed items, mauled
peanut butter sandwich on white bread, grape
jelly leaking on a stray piece of lined paper 
litmus for future me and what my I might 
become. The safety scissors, red handled  
because I’m left-handed, plastic sharpener
shaped like a cartoon character, wedged 
between dull arms that creased but
never cut, flakes of graphite and frustration
collecting in the seams. It’s why, each year,

I’d get a new backpack, holes in the old one
my father demanded answers about,
never fathoming where they came from. I  
could not explain it, the wearing away, the
exhaustion of always having to explain,
the packing and unpacking and repacking, 
rusty streaks on my worksheets, hardened 
rubber that became chewing gum because I  
never learned to sneak the real thing. I
don’t know why I always touched the desk’s

underside, running a middle finger secretly
along pipes and screws connecting surface
to seat, grossed out when I felt artifacts 
of something hidden but reasonable, 
nervous for whoever the offender was. I
would wonder if they ever got caught. 
Felt guilty. Admitted it. Got punished. 

May 4, 2025