What I Really Want to Do

and the plan is:
to neglect my textbooks in my locker,
go off of my memory.
not read for class; blank stares
as i'm accustomed to,
as i pretend i can't hear anything.
homework finished
the first few minutes
as the teachers waste time in the halls.
scratched squiggles on a paper,
letting everybody down,
becoming friends with the numbers 50 and 60.
then they'll sit me down
in their office and ask what's wrong with me.
i'll pick up a red pen
from the little metal basket,
forgoing the black fountain and the mechanical pencil.
on the back of my hand i'll draw
a flower, simple flower,
rub the back of my hand across the hair on my temple.
i'll pretend that i put the flower there,
tucked gently in my ear.
my hair, unkempt, my eyes wild,
i'll tell them that there's nothing wrong with me.