Teachers pet

The invisible scars of being the chosen student. Where the past never fully erases.

The gold star lost its luster years ago,
though its ghost still sticks between my brows.
I wore it like a crown of tarnished foil,
while chalk dust settled in the lines of my hands.

You kept me after class, not to teach,
but to admire your own reflection
in my polished silence.
"Such potential," you'd murmur,
as if my spine were a bookshelf
for your ambitions.

The blackboard bore witness,
its erased equations lingering
like the scent of your cologne
on my second-hand sweater.
I learned to parse the grammar of your glances,
to conjugate my face into something worthy
of your red-ink blessings.

Now when I pass a schoolhouse,
my throat tightens around old words..
"Yes, sir" and "No, sir"
and "Thank you for noticing."
The children spill out laughing,
their backpacks light with unfinished dreams,
while I carry mine still,
filled with the weight
of being chosen.

Time has made philosophers of us all
you, perhaps, retired to some sunlit porch,
me with my hard-won wisdom:
how the brightest students
cast the longest shadows,
and how the praise we kneel for
often leaves its fingerprints
on our ribs.

The bell rings somewhere.
I no longer jump to answer.
But sometimes, in weak moments,
I catch myself straightening,
as if hearing my name
called from your roll book
one last time.