A Requiem for My Senior Year

“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. 

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