To my English teacher

I’d very much like to be clean of error, some type of toy robot maybe, wind up my key, ask me anything and I’d do it like no other. No problem, sir yes sir. I’d be so completely useful that nobody would even question if Bbeganny26 could, because he would. He’ll handle it, he always handles it. I’d very much like to be that way exactly. Most do, I assume. Instead I insist on making things impossibly difficult for everyone I meet, I try desperately not to do so but I crawl back to my old ways and beg for forgiveness all the same. Hands and knees, ups and downs. I don’t have one colossal mistake that sticks out, nothing specific to apologize for or learn from that would be worth writing about, unless of course you wanted to hear about a white lie or public meltdown, of which I have an unspeakable amount of.

Everyone I’ve come to know has specific lows, dips in their line graph that they feel guilty for. Stories of betrayal, greed, deception, Something to hide in the back of their mind lest the world find out what a savage beast they are. I have no canyons in my line graph, no slopes the size of skyscrapers the people shouldn’t see. I’m an open book, I’ll tell you the truth if you ask it of me, It’s the only thing I’d like to think I’m good at, honesty. And so you asked, and so I’ll tell you just what. I have no craters in my life but a series of sharp hills that only seem to fall further every passing day. Mistake, mistake, mistake. I have no craters but mountains, impossibly high mountains grace my line graph when I do even the simplest good. I put away the groceries and you’d think I’d invented a cure to world hunger the way it shot up so tall and proud, shot up so tall you can’t see the top.

I live a life of great shame, you see, and I can’t help but shout it to anyone willing to listen. You. I don’t even know you. You go home to people you love and you don’t think a thing about me. A warm house and comfortable bed, a television to free your mind from the tiresome school day you’ve endured. I’m that one boy who was in your class at one point, I’m sure a year from today you’ll hardly know my name. I write this anyway though, for me, I suppose. Maybe it’s therapeutic, or maybe I just like to write for the hell of it. Point is I’m writing it, and you have the misfortune of reading my words, what a job that must be. An english teacher, you look like you’ve got it all together, though I’m sure you don’t, nobody does, at least from what I hear. You’re powerful to people you know. It’s scary to talk to you, not because you’re a scary person, but because you seem better than we are, I am. You’re a leader, the direction your thumb takes decides the future. pass, fail. Must be pretty special, You’re a god in these walls, god of words and grammar. You get to see our lives through those smart letters and stories. I wonder what everyone else writes like, someone may have given you a tale of great woe, I yelled at my sister or I lied to my parents. Another, maybe a hopeful way they’ve learned from their faults. I learned to be more empathetic, learned to treat peers with respect. Maybe they use a plethora of similes. “My heart was beating like a drum.” Or possibly “I was light as a feather.” But, now you’re here, stuck with me for just a minute or two. Am I different to you, I wonder? Are my stories any different? Better? Worse than others? So many things to read, people to learn about, people begging for attention just like me. Look at me! over here! right over here, see? Paparazzi. Must be quite the job, huh? lots of work, lots of words. You’re a celebrity, important here, and we, we’re just passing through and gawking at you. Over here. Look over here… see?

So my mistakes. What have I learned? All these things about me I hate so terribly. My constant yearning for attention, an old beggar with no face. Maybe sometimes you’re born like this, like me. Shame, damn shame, you know? I pray if there is a god he learns from me. Bad mold, cheap plastic. He built me with the blueprint upside down whilst battling a bad flu. But despite that I still work well enough, you can still wind me up just fine, I need a bit of help is all. I get jammed once in a while. Someones gotta be there and then I’m like all the others, then I’m “cool as a cucumber” or “Calm as a millpond.” I guess I’ve figured out that I need people. People like my family, people like you, people who no matter how begrudgingly, still listen to me ramble. What a job, huh? what a job that must be for you. Thank you though, I’m glad it’s you. Anyone else might hate me for the ridiculous amount of self-loathing I perform in these blasted things. I have no stories for you, no woe or hope, but I can be honest, that’s what I’ve got, that’s all I’ve got. So look at me, look over here, see? Or don’t. It’s your world boss. It’s your world and I hope so desperately I’m living in it. I guess I still work, and I think that’s good enough for me.

Art by Bbeganny26