Drowning Still Counts as Present

Dear School,

I hate you.

Not quietly.

Not politely.

Not with my hand raised

asking for permission.

I hate how you wake me up

already losing,

already tired,

already bracing myself

for another day of pretending.

You call it being surrounded—

I call it being alone,

in a crowd that doesn’t care

to learn my name.

I sit in your classrooms—

head up,

eyes open,

lungs burning—

because drowning silently

still counts.

You decide worth

in red ink and percentages,

like a test score can explain

just how hard it is

to survive here.

But you weren’t always like this.

You used to be safe.

A second home.

Recess meant freedom.

Lunch meant sharing.

Friends felt real,

and laughter stayed.

Now it’s fake smiles,

heavy backpacks,

and hallways so loud

they echo with loneliness.

Now it’s survival

disguised as education.

I am exhausted—

from showing up,

from holding it together,

from breaking quietly

so no one gets uncomfortable.

You were supposed to build me.

Not bend me.

Not drain me.

Not make getting through the day

feel like an achievement.

So if I’m here—

name answered,

body present,

mind somewhere underwater—

I’m still fighting.

Some days

showing up is the victory.

Some days

surviving is the effort.

And drowning—

still breathing,

still here—

still counts.