To Be Like Them

The teacher is talking.
She drones on and on
like a soothing buzz.
I look around.
Everyone stares at her,
with wide eyes,
as if any second,
she may pass out candy.
Why can’t I be like them?
Their smiles so easy and light against
their round faces.
Why can’t I be like them?
Why do I feel like I’m carrying the weight
of the world in my backpack,
while they leave their troubles
at home?          
The students all flutter with glee.
Something has changed. 
I try to comprehend what the teacher
says through my hurricane of worried
thoughts.
All I can manage is the word “game”.
Oh boy. My favorite.
They all trickle from their desks to the floor.
Thick metal shackles strap me to my desk,
and my backpack,
and my misery.
I am eight,
and already know,
I will never be like them.
I will never be carefree, or innocent, or peaceful.
I am eight,
and I already know,
I will never be like them.
No matter how much I Wish,
or Hope,
or Pray.
It is too late.
I am eight.
And I,
will never be like them.