I know you’re mad at me.
Don’t pretend you’re not.
You have been out to get me from day one.

I knew it the first day of school;
you knew my name before I learned yours.
That was one of the first warnings
and I should've known it was
the first of many red lights.

I know you’re mad at me.
Your voice takes a different tone.
With friends, you are a joyful child;
with me, you are a punished prisoner.

You try to act lighthearted
but it doesn’t work.
Your mind is plastic.
I can see right through you.

I know you’re mad at me.
You’ve sat at my same table
twice this year.
Turned both areas
into active landmines.

In chemistry class,
once across,
once right
next to me.

Your intense,
sea-colored gaze
bored into me.

Your breathing,
loud and agitated,
rang in my ears daily.

A bull ready to charge
sat next to me,
the attack impossible to
prepare for, and it
painted my world in fear.

Now you sit
one table
in front,
but I am still
shaken by those
two experiences.

You still stare
at me like I
am your
worst enemy,
your mouth a
line of boredom
and rage.

I know you’re mad at me.
And I don’t know
how
it happened

or what I
did to kill
your kindness
before you gave it.

But I do know this:
You are mad at me.
And whatever I did,
I wish I could undo.

So I wouldn’t make life
unbearable for you.