My face is sticking to itself

Less of a poem and more of a vent

Can't sit in class without my skull hastily falling against the wood
Can't manage to keep it up at this point
Not sure what you're asking of me
They've put me on something new
Calls and bills
Littering my floor is a sickly yellow liquid
Accompanied by a crimson viscous one
The stains on my forearms grow long and dangling
The lashes of my eyes sweep low with vigor
The crook of my arm hold nothing
And the bridge of my nose holds up these old worn windows
One day they will break the cartilage