Fearful First Day as a Female Freshman

I remember my hands first—

fingers curled into the straps of a backpack

too heavy with notebooks I’d never fill,

nails painted a color I picked just to seem

like I knew who I was.

The hallway was a river then—

bodies flowing around me,

water rushing, lockers slamming like rocks

jutting up from the current.

I kept to the edges.

Maybe I still do.

There was that boy in the green hoodie

leaning against the vending machine,

chewing gum in slow motion,

and I swore he looked at me—

or maybe through me—

but my heart still tripped.

A phantom bruise bloomed in my chest.

My shoes squeaked.

Everyone’s voices were taller than mine.

Even the girls who smiled at me

wore their laughter like perfect eyeliner.

I practiced smiling in the bathroom mirror

between classes,

as if I could learn the shape of belonging.

The smell of pencil shavings.

Chalk dust in the air.

A girl brushing her hair with her fingers.

The way the clock ticked louder than the teacher’s voice—

time stretching and folding,

already teaching me that some moments

want to stay forever,

and some only want to pass.

I can’t remember what I ate for lunch,

but I remember the hum in my ribs,

the ache of wanting someone to say my name

like it was already theirs to keep.

I remember walking home under a sky

that looked like notebook paper,

lined in fading gold,

and thinking:

Tomorrow I will wear my hair differently.

Tomorrow I will speak first.

Tomorrow I will not be afraid—

—but the memory never makes it to tomorrow.

- whole poem was written with assistance from AI