Killer Smile



Random Drabbles in Community Service Class

But I promise, I wrote this in science ;)

I tell her that I’m sorry, but I know she doesn’t believe me.  Heck, if I were her, I wouldn’t believe me.  It’s not that I’m lying–oh how I wish I were–I guess I’m just not a very believable person.  I mean, I show all the signs of a liar: my hair is greasy from bad genes and my palms sweat constantly.  I was born with a stutter that my obnoxious parents were too proud to correct.  It’s not my fault, really.  I swear I’m telling the truth, but people always think I’m not.  I couldn’t pass a lie detector test asking what gender I was.

And another little thing.

I feel the poison rise up the veins in my arm, but I continue to write.  Write.  Written.  Wrote.  To most, it is just homework for English class.  To me, the word is power.  The arm is power.  Ink is permanent, a dastardly weapon to be used with force, which is why I Sharpie the words into my arm with as much emotion and power and force that I can possibly muster.  This is not the first time I have written on my arm, and though I recognize that it is a bad habit, I know I will not stop.  I write in anonymity, I write from the point of view of a singular unknown individual, and yet the individual could be anyone.  My individual is man or woman (or even, sometimes, both or neither), old or young, usually in the middle.  They have infinite knowledge or no knowledge at all, and they talk to someone, another unknown, another one who is everyone.  My individual, it has power.

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