The pretty girls chatter, painted nails woven with the chain-link. The others hover, waiting for an opening either through death or disfigurement, the method matters not. Boys pose and pout and kick at the ground because, well, because.
You stand somewhere in-between, your head full of algebraic equations, energy and matter and the colors of rainbows. If you don’t hear our laughter does that mean it isn’t happening?
We’re jealous of the way you separate without conflict, the way you suffer neither the in nor the out, unaware of the fear we cling to with our decorated digits.