It’s 3.41am. I’m Writing My Last Ever English Literature Assignment.

I’m writing an essay

on culture and a sense of belonging.

It’s 3.41am.

I’m on my second all-nighter of the week.

I don’t think I like English Literature.

No, wait, I really don’t like English Literature.

I’m thankful for the posh words,

and how I now know how to say ‘bourgeoisie’

which is also fun to spell…

but I prefer the word ‘ambidexterity’

and putting my thoughts

into poems not essays.

I’m not smart at this academic stuff.

I was smart on you.

I will be smart on you.

The former and latter people I’ll someday love.

I can’t sleep.

Words on this

aren’t even polished.

I’m not even a third in.

Maybe that’s what my grade will be.

This was supposed to be a love poem.

But I don’t know you yet

and my veins are pumped

with a can of Monster.

It’s a long night ahead.

So, please,

if you’re out there…

Let me burrow into your chest.

I’ll live there a little while.

You smell like home.


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