There is a dead wasp in the back of my classroom.
Not metaphorically. There is a dead wasp to the left of a power socket, beneath the whiteboard spanning the back wall. He is flipped on his back,
legs stuck uselessly upward, never to fly again. In this room, so full of people, alive and well, it's strange to find something dead.
Even a bug. It's also strange how no one else has noticed. I guess most kids have better things to do than think about death,
especially on the first day of school. They're expecting to be reborn. But these classrooms are only new to us, they have sat here for decades,
and one day, they will be gone as well. One day, we will all lie on our backs in the dirt.
I get where he's coming from. Sometimes I can't breathe in this place either. The noises and the colors become too much.
Everything gets caught up in my throat and I start to feel weak. I'm just a fruit fly, and a hive is buzzing around me.
There is a dead wasp in the back of my classroom and I feel bad for him.