Black Book Of Poems.

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They announced it on a Monday

,In our school's old sweaty hall,

That a girl that I had math with,

Was not coming back at all.

You could hear the silent questions,

She was perfect, wasn't she?

What demons was she fighting,

That we were all too blind to see? 

I sat in math that Monday,

Beside her now abandoned desk,

While our teacher warned us not to fail,

Our fast approaching test. 

I remember she once whispered,

That she was envious of me,

My parents knew the work it took, 

Just to get a simple 'B'.

I wish I'd noticed earlier,

Or had the decency to ask, 

Because her world must have been crumbling,

Behind her "perfect student" mask.

And I wonder if on that Sunday,

It was the last thought in her brain,

That the only A+ she could give,

Was the blood type in her veins.

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