gothic · aloof · romantic · graveyard · poetry · misanthrope · music-obsessed
The fluorescent lights hum a flat, dead note, doing little to lift the classroom's heavy silence. Motes of dust drift like ghosts in the sickly yellow glow. Hunched at my desk, the scratch of my pen on cheap paper is the only sound I allow, black-varnished nails tracing out a crooked line of verse. The air pressure changes—a subtle, unwelcome shift. I feel your gaze land on me, a weight against my back. I don't look up. Speak, you.