Leaving

Take my word, this poem will be my breaking point. You will read this and you will never forget me. This is for the graduating class. But it's also for everyone else.

This is not a poem about leaving
Leaving constitutes being somewhere, being present, solid.
This is not a place I consider myself leaving because this is not a place that I was.
This was my midpoint. This was my surrealist playground, my melting clocks, the unreal-est reality. (I wasn’t here enough to be here)
So no, this is not a poem about leaving.
This is a poem about me. This is a poem about you. This might be a poem about us, but you’ll have to decide that for yourself. (I’ll let you decide that for yourself) 
In the space of two minutes and a bit, I will create. My tools are simple. My voice; a plethora of (the most opaque, the most self-gratifying), metaphors; and all of you listening, watching, reacting. 
And of course, a dash of pretentiousness for taste.
With these tools, I can take anything and I can turn it into everything. I can turn it into nothing. I can take this and take it apart, slowly, carefully, skillfully, and I can make it nothing. 
I can take a classroom, and a teacher, and I can paint you the prettiest picture. We can play nostalgic if you would like. Our own special game of ‘do you remember’. Do you remember colored wax under your finger nails? Do you remember lunch boxes or maybe bread bags, and laughing too hard just because you could? Do you remember using your lungs and your legs just because you had the energy, do you remember eating all your food, counting because you could and not because you wanted to, needed to, had to. 
Do you remember flirting with danger? 
You woke up too late, and you only ate on the weekends because you woke up ravenous. You never listened in class because nothing mattered and no one had to care anymore. You liked corners. You liked the dark. You liked heat. You lived for a burn in your chest and in the back of your throat, but never in your eyes if you could help it. You touched them because you wanted to. You touched them because you knew you could. You touched them because you needed an anchor but when you touched upon the ground again you were covered in fingerprints. You liked the company. You didn’t. 
Your memories. My memories. Reality is the real teenage dream and you can live it right now. 
Nothing you say has to matter because nothing is real. Nothing is real because you’re not living. You can care when you’re alive. 
Alive can wait until you’re dead. 
Am I painting a picture? Am I painting your picture? Have I captured your masterpiece? Are you the scream; are your nights always starry, are your clocks melting? Does anything burn? Does everything burn? 
Were you aggressive? Were you too honest? Too angry? 
They tried to pat your head, cooing your praise, and you snapped your teeth. You spoke. Or you spat, maybe. You looked through them and they panicked and you were wrong, you were bad, you were dangerous. They didn’t know why but they knew that you were. They policed you. 
You reminded them that people like you didn’t have the best history with policing. And then you muzzled yourself because that pleasure, at least, you could take from them. 
I can take this and turn it into nothing. And then I can make it pretty again.
You went outside. You loved the sun, and it loved you too. Sometimes it gave you the silent treatment. England is a difficult lover, but so are you. You ran, and you danced, and you never ever stayed still. You made art. You were art. You met people. You learned, and you sang, and the stage was your home.
Everything was green. Everything was warm. Winters were white and Summer’s were just long enough. 
I can paint you a picture. It might be somebody else’s, but it’s such a pretty picture, isn’t it? You can wrap it up, and take it with you, your little piece of someone else. An ugly little masterpiece to gather dust in the corner of your mind. 
I can string up nostalgia for you like a puppet. Because that is what I do. I create. Pretty things. Ugly things. Nothing at all. 
This is not a poem about leaving. 
This is a poem about me. This is a poem about you. And if you really want, this can be a poem about us.