Waiting for the school shuttle to pick me up
I rest on the short beige wall, eating a bit of baguette.
I start to think about the day’s classes and exams
and feel the anxiety surge through me.
At first I think I have control this time
but then I can tell it’s going to happen again.
The headache comes, I fold over in gripping pain, then I shatter to pieces.
I’m as broken as Jackie Onassis must have felt at the funeral.

I can feel the eyes of the other students on me
even though my eyes are buried in the heap of my body.
The bits of my hands grow back together then feel around on the concrete
for my ankles, my knees, my elbows, and so on.
It’s difficult to put the pieces in the right order
but I manage with minimal vision.
I’ve done it so many times now.

Soon I’m back together and the memory is erased from the onlookers.
They return to their boredom,
reading magazines and texting on their phones.
I grab my backpack off the ground then watch the bus pull up to the stop.
I must remember to take my medicine.


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