The teachers put a rag
over your face.
Chloroform steals your senses.
Numbers and
rules,
grammar and
formulas
spin in sickly circles
until someone shakes you
roughly awake.

You can’t see their faces,
their lives.
Each wears a mask
of degrees and
qualifications,
doctors hiding
weary mothers,
masters concealing
fathers' distress,
victims just as
scared
as you.

They tie you
to a crooked chair
and drag you from
classroom to classroom,
Each assignment brandishing
another knife,
Each quiz another
nerve-wracking
game of Russian Roulette,
Each student
pleading for their lives—
If only they knew

That the knives
are made of cardboard,
that the ties binding them
are nothing more than threads.

Here, in this
den of thieves,
this Institute of
Secondary Learning,
scars are nothing
but paint,
blood
is merely sweat,
your life is on no line
but the space where you
signed your enrollment.

At another time,
you may be in danger
of being shot
But here, at least,
We train you with rubber bullets.