Truth Opens

inside these four walls:
            white,
                   cinderblock,
                                 resistant to holding posters in place–
i spell the letters of my name; the one I am suddenly known for
i slide it around in my mouth like a hard caramel–Chin-Tha; Am I her?
Miss Chin-Tha.

i scan the room for a sign that I am in fact the adult
I’m supposed to be here.
Fifteen sets of eyes pierce me; searching—
                            sharp,
                                    nervous,
                                            intimidating

I glance through the tiny rectangular glass in the wooden door keeping us here; consider running the six hundred and seventy-nine miles back to my mother’s house.
a nineties ballad holding me tight, alone on my bed free and yearning for something big to happen, waiting for the love of my life to sweep me off my feet just like in the rom-com movies I’ve faithfully fed myself for dinner every night.

I am twenty-six, though,
a master’s degree neatly tucked away in the new condo which I share with my boyfriend.
I am grown-up, in charge of fifteen, twelve year-olds times five.

I glance at the neatly slanted handwriting on the white board—a perfect learning target crafted with care:
We can identify imagery in poetry.

Can we?

In the silence,
                        under the fluorescent lights,
                                    the twelve year-olds probe my body top to bottom.

A truth opens its door; one I did not know was dwelling inside me:

We can love inside of chaos and sad, sad narratives, and deep belly laughter. We can identify love for each other in ways that will not be assessed on state exams or class observations.

It will run six hundred and seventy-nine miles deep:
a love that I will look back on every time I reintroduce myself to new eyes probing
for…
Well—
love.