He paints his nails black to bring discolorment into his life. His room is filled with shadows that dance to the tortured beauty of depression, composers named by their contribution to his record collection. He'll steal a melody for his ceiling to shade the stars of his ceiling fan Madness. In two days, he'll tell his secrets to the crowd of claustrophobic peers that shape their paper like throwable stones. He is open in ways that send lesser angels into convulsive fits on the frontline of Battlefield High School. Casualties: 11 and counting.
He inks "freak" on his hand and stares at the masks that decorate his hallways with mocking affection. He is older now than he ever has been, but he feels like a kid trapped in a pinball machine, falling through the cracks of classroom malice. He dresses his emotions up in Catholic schoolboy uniforms, and he waves peace flags that look like battered knuckles to guidance counselors. He's falling apart in spite of himself, despite of his self-worth. He smiles at his window and drifts into an Afterschool Special coma, avoiding all commercial breaks (in the lining of dark recess).
