False Teacher
by Sabrina Dawkins
How much did they pay you for my soul?
I hope a lot,
but I’m sure the number would disappoint me.
Did they give you the clothes too
as props to help with the illusion
that you were someone who identified with me?
I’m a sucker for a good entertainer, I must admit.
Grew up watching television and the big screen,
paying to be lied to.
And it wouldn’t have been a big deal
if you’d made it on the big screen
because I only would’ve lost a little money.
I would’ve grown out of your celebrity hype
and even chuckled to myself that I was ever fooled.
But you were too close to deem fiction.
I watched you walk from one chalkboard end
to the other.
But you dressed casually, like one of us.
Your coffee mug steam was an incense.
I meditated in my seat
and allowed you to soak into my subconscious.
In grade school, the teachers dress up
and assert their authority.
After that, they want you to think you’re an adult,
so they mirror your dress, and their lectures are casual.
You decide whether or not to believe what they say.
But freedom is a terrible thing,
especially when you’re young.
I saw an endless buffet of different colors of ice cream
and no one telling me the health risks.
But I wasn’t a kid in a candy store—I was an adult,
or so they say.
But the only adult I saw was you.
And you gave me a lot of choices disguised as theories.
And I didn’t know which one was true,
and now that I look back on it,
neither did you.
But you taught me them anyway.
And like a kid, I took it all in,
bloated my stomach with sweets
that gave me a tummy ache
and sent me home sick.