The office was plain,

even with the awards on the walls,

maybe especially with the awards on the walls.

“I was a principal once,” she said.

I looked at her.

She was a sweet lady.

The job had scarred her and rubbed its ugliness into her wounds.

“You have to be tough to do this job,” she said.

I knew she was saying I was sensitive,

but I accepted that about myself years ago.

I could tell someone had hurt her that morning.

She was sad and wanted to be comforted,

But she couldn’t ask.

The job had worked its poison into her brain.

“Why don’t you become a teacher? I was a teacher before I did this job.”

She was saying one thing and meaning another.

“It’s true; I’m not sure I am ready for administration; I don’t know if I want to attend all those meetings.”

She gave me a smirk of superiority. “You get used to it,” she said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. You can get used to anything.”

I was making her uncomfortable.

She listened and later spun care into her words with bad intentions.

Nobody can be real here.

They act fake, so they don’t get hurt

and their acting becomes who they are.