Mr. Silva’s Office

…yeah. Guidance office, second floor. Try not to slam the door. Door half cracked, fluorescent buzz, Air too still, like something was— Said in here and never left, Caught between your teeth and chest. Big lynx frame, fills the chair, Manbun tied like he still cares, Glasses low, eyes cut sharp— Like he’s reading past your parts. Got a book he pushes every week, Like salvation’s written in the ink… Hey, Mr. Silva, say it straight, What’s in the cup you medicate? You talk us down like you’ve been there— Shaky hands, deadpan stare. Hey, Mr. Silva, play it cool, You don’t break, you just bend the rules, Patchin’ cracks with a practiced spell— You don’t gotta tell, we can tell. Writes it down, then writes again, Lines too clean for where you’ve been, Everything in measured place— Nothing moves without a trace. Office mess but edges tight, Control dressed up as oversight, Ask him once, he dodges twice— “Some things don’t need your advice.” Courtroom words he won’t repeat, Still echo when he speaks… Hey, Mr. Silva, say it straight, What’s in the cup you medicate? You talk us down like you’ve been there— Shaky hands, deadpan stare. Hey, Mr. Silva, play it cool, You don’t break, you just bend the rules, Patchin’ cracks with a practiced spell— You don’t gotta tell, we can tell. There’s a gap in what he says, Like a word he never lets— Cross the line between his teeth, Buried somewhere underneath. Watch ticks loud against his wrist, Like he’s timing what he missed, Then he leans in, voice goes low— “Stick with me, we’ll take it slow.” “You ever read The Lord of the Rings?” (pause) “…it’s about carrying something too heavy.” Late nights bleeding into day, Says he’s fine the same old way, Bottle rinsed and turned around— Like that makes it not there now. Still shows up, still holds the line, Keeps it clean, keeps it timed, Holds your mess like it’s his own— Then goes back to being alone. Hey, Mr. Silva, say it straight, What’s in the cup you medicate? You talk us down like you’ve been there— Shaky hands, deadpan stare. Hey, Mr. Silva, play it cool, You don’t break, you just bend the rules, Patchin’ cracks with a practiced spell— You don’t gotta tell— —we can tell. Door half shut, light still hums, Another name, another one, “Take your time,” he says again— Like he’s talking to himself… …back then.