They announced it on Monday,
In our school's old sweaty hall,
That a girl I had math with,
Wasn't coming back at all,
You could hear the silent questions,
She was perfect wasn't she?
What deomns was she fighting,
That we were all too blind to see?
I sat in math that Monday,
Beside her abandoned desk,
While our teacher warned us not to fail,
Our fast approching test,
I remember she once whispered,
That she was envious of me,
My parents knew the work it took,
Just to get a simple 'B',
I wish I'd noticed earlier,
Or had the decency to ask,
Because her world must have been crumbling,
Behind her 'perfect student' mask,
And I wonder if that Sunday,
It was the last thign on her brain,
That the only A+ she could give,
Was the blood type in her veins.