“A Requiem for My Senior Year”
By Mya Trujillo
“I hate this place so much,” I said
during an assembly where we talked about our futures.
“I want to go home,” I said
as I sat in a blue plastic chair before a math quiz.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” I said
while taking notes in Biology class.
Now I miss dragging my body
from bed at six in the morning.
I miss racing to school as the sun rose—
the warmth leaving my body
as I turned up the heat in my car.
I miss walking into the building
with my friends, smiling at an underclassman
greeting me with high-pitched, “Good morning!”
I miss the harsh lights in my droopy eyes,
burning through my sensitive retinas.
I miss the bad passing music,
each song weaving its way into my brain.
I miss seeing the tired faces of my teachers
as they showed us different corners of the world
through poems, through functions, through music.
I miss the memories I’ll never make,
and the stories I’ll never get to tell.