I spend the rest of sixth period and all seventh reading the walls of Poet’s Corner. The poems here are silly, heartbreaking, hilarious, sad, and many are absolutely incredible. They’re about people who don’t care enough and people who care too much, people you trust and people who turn on you, hating school, loving your friends, seeing the beauty in the world. Sprinkled among them are heavier ones about depression and addiction, self-mutilation and various forms of self-medication. But most of them are about love. Wanting it. Missing it. Actually being in it. I read some of those twice.
None of the poetry is marked with anything that makes its author identifiable—aside from the fast-food wrappers, which appear to be Sydney’s trademark. Hard as I try, I can’t figure out which ones Caroline penned, but AJ’s proved to be fairly easy; as soon as I found that first song, I had no trouble finding more of his right-slanted, narrow handwriting.
By the time the final bell rings, I’ve read hundreds of poems. As eager as I am to say I covered every square inch of this place, I’ve already been alone down here for over an hour. AJ’s sitting at the table, waiting for me to return, and I still have a poem of my own to write.
My backpack is still sitting in front by the couch, so I take a seat and thumb through my notebooks. I skip the red one because I’m not angry, and the blue one because I’m not thinking about the pool. The poem that’s building inside of me is a yellow one. My head falls back into the cushions, and I let my gaze travel around the walls one more time before I take my pen to the paper. I tap it three times. Then I let everything go.
