School Soup

My days are like soup.

School soup.

Soup that smells of canteens and sounds like a hundred spoons banging, chairs scraping, voices grating.

My mouth tastes of it. Everything I raise turns to school soup between my lips. My saliva creates it, at night when I wake and shove bread-turned-soup in my gob and lie there, waiting, for the school soup aftermath to subside.

I am a school soup factory.

By day my legs, my arms, my mind move slowly, blearily or not at all. Through the soup which clings to elbows and synapses, clogging and clagging, preventing thought or creation or smiles.

School soup sticks in your throat. It pulls acid from below and fear from above and places a veil before you, blocking you from the future and into a neverending school-soup now.

I hate school soup.


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