You sit, aligned, faces facing front, feeling me over
with your wide-open eyes,
waiting for me to cough up something wrong
or weird
or wild
or whatever will make you judge my thoughts.
And maybe you'll all toss pennies at me for each word I stutter,
but maybe, instead, you'll chuck hate glares my way,
hoping I'll mutter unintended words of nervousness
as nausea climbs up from gut to lungs and it's hard to breathe now
and my vision gets hazy and dark and I'm dizzy
and my heart thumps in my ears so I can't hear my own voice.
I just wish I'd drop dead because even my fear of death
doesn't compare to telling you all how I feel,
and right now I feel sick, shaken and stirred,
praying for judgment to be deterred.
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