I sit in front,
I know your names.
I see the stress behind your frames.
While they scroll, I learn the rules—
My armor? Being “not that cool.”
You call me
teacher’s pet,
with that crooked little smirk.
But tell me—who you run to
when your late slip doesn’t work?
When you wanna break the dress code,
When you’re scheming one more trick—
you whisper to the girl you mock,
because you know I’m politics.
So what if I’m the teacher’s pet?
At least I know what I’m worth to them.
You say I’m fake, I say I care—
You play your games, I play it fair.
Don’t need your seat at lunch, my love—
I’ve got respect, and that’s enough.
They say I’m weird,
like that’s a crime.
I’ve seen more kindness in staffroom time.
And no, I’m not a tattletale—
but I don’t cheer when people fail.
They want a scapegoat in a skirt,
A brain they think they can convert.
But I don’t play your empty chess,
I play the long game—nothing less.
“She likes you best,”
they scoff like it’s sin.
But I don’t need
your scratched-up grin.
I know what I am—
a middle child of chaos and order,
lonely in the eye
of your petty border.
So yes, I’m the pet,
but not for praise.
I stay behind to help
while you burn your days.
And if I’m a pawn—
well, I know the board.
I may not have friends,
but I’ve earned rapport.
You dance in chaos, call it youth.
But here I am, the walking proof
That growing up is not a sin—
Just not as loud as fitting in.
So write me off,
Say I’m too tame—
But I’ve outlived
your hallway games.
I’ll wear that name
you said in jest...
I’m not your pet.
I’m teacher’s best.
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