I walk to school, my battered plastic bag on my tortured back;
my half eaten apple rotting through the see through cover.
As I enter the school gates, i hear laughter that fills the cold air.
The privileged ones. I smile tearfully and join the secluded.
The depressed peoples’ line as we call it.

The bell rings, I move with experience to the back of the class,
the chuckles around me choke the air.
I get my book out and batter it in my hands till it is a shade of black.
That is better. Much better.
The second bell rings and I file out of class into the coloured peoples’ toilet,
two butterflies touch my arm.
I feel extraordinary. I focus on the beige butterfly,
struggling through my tight grip, I hold onto it until it powders to the floor.
Lifeless.

Guilt flushes through my skin,
I get scared for a minute fearing that it might be visible.
On my skin.
It could make me a culprit.
However, the voice inside my head reassures me,
I feel significant and important all at once.
What a wonderful feeling, yet so rarely experienced.
I need to feel it more often.

I feel my pulse rise and relax and rise and relax—an endless cycle;
the cycle of my life.
I wish I could go home and cuddle up against anything;
anything that shows love, that shows compassion,
and has a kind heart.

I trudge back to class.
A girl is staring impassively at me through her grand, golden glasses.
In the hallway—she gives me a lopsided grin and her fists shoot to my eyes,
no reason why. My vision is blurred and my hands are bleeding
—I feel powerful,
I grab her four dolls. The rich one. The poor one.
The colored one. The fair one.
They shatter in between my fists.

I stare at them with venom in my heart.
And now we stare dumbfounded at the dolls.
They are all battered. They are all ripped open.
They are all, the same colour inside.