Snowed It's all white. White uniforms and white hallways and white people and white everything. White robes on the priests, white hair on the picture of the pope that glares down at me, white floors and white socks and white lies. Sometimes when I look around catholic school that's all I can think and see and hear, the white, because everywhere I turn there's someone who looks perfect. They're all faceless, just different shades of hair and different shades of tans and different shades of smirks and different shades of lies. The white comes from the little uniform shop that sits like a bunion on the corner of an office supply store. Oh the
Hey Ashely It's Jared You're Black B101. That's my Catholic school locker number. 23-25-39, that's my combination though it doesn't matter any more because it's been a long time since I took my lock off the green door and attached it to a chain around my neck. My textbooks are nothing worth stealing, with their covers falling off and the pages marked up. Trashed Biology, big thick Lit, Grammar and Comp that I hate, Spanish workbooks all three of them, a Catholic New Answer Bible being bent. The locker isn't really mine. It's a depot, a convenient place to dump my weight and keep moving. Come the end of the year when I finally leave, nothing of me will be