By Tiffany Troy
Say years ago, You were Hermione Granger beaming with delight at the animation of caged men being led outside of the cave by the philosopher-king but you were locked outside, as the class began without you, and you wept. But say you told yourself not to give up, just yet, as you peered into the split canvas of paint, heart beating, but when you raised your hand to speak, high, way up high, you were not called on, and eventually… like a dog slapped by his master too many times in doing what he was not supposed to do you were brought to the ground where you belonged. Say you no longer gleamed and your hand waited in your arms, hesitant, fearful of the heart-slap more than yearning to cough out phlegm trapped within you. Say that is your school-life, this sad noise, that after a while you stopped caring about the hand-me-downs from your big brother or you tell yourself so. But say you went through the Butler stacks on the tenth floor, as if you were on an adventure, to search for books to be earmarked but unmarked when unburdened at the end of the semester in their colorful Borrow Direct jacket, warmer than your heart is, as outside, the apple grows, drops, and rots. Say unlike Faust who was so driven that he was good enough to trade souls with the devil, you were no longer driven by books, or so you say, out of your fear of not belonging, though it’s true you no longer even want to be a philosopher-king. Say still, even then, your smile betrayed you as your world expanded, as you flipped open a little unknown and you quietly stepped out of the darkness into the meadow or swamp that awaits you.