As the teacher finds the
next sheet of paper to hand out
you sit quietly
leaning forward as if you were listening
when in reality the sketches you're creating
are as visible as the cuts on your arm,
because you've taken off your sweatshirt.

I heard your friends ask you
"Where did those come from?",
"What happened to you?",
and you smile in response
give a lighthearted answer
and then change the topic completely,
asking always about them.

It's hard to see through someone
when they're too busy seeing through everyone
but I look at your scars and I see
the mountain of regrets and
the sea of hopelessness,
your paper sketches can't hoist you out,
your paper sketches will melt in the water.

You catch me looking at you
right as the teacher finishes his finding
and starts dealing his papers.

You have been looking to find someone
and you're looking at me now
but you should be focusing on looking at yourself.