One I am a being, imperfectly improper like this fraction of a musical beat, pulsating larger on top, my breasts are too big, my mind thinks too fast– being, larger on top because I stress too much and there’s thoughts raging my mind. I am one of twenty thousand, a mere number in a campus of beings, we are all the one in this improper ratio, exponentially expanding in class size; congratulations to the class of 20**, the smartest, largest, most achieved— we are improper beings, the way we train our minds to believe we are such flawless, achieved, perfect beings. One, I am one.
Two I am a lover, no boy has ever held my hand or graced his lips upon mine but life makes me blush, the way leaves change color so picturesquely in the fall, or the way people can heave such genuine laughter from the deepest crevices of their stomachs where mine stores nothing but bile– I am a lover for love itself and nothing more, and nothing less, but the absence of love leaves whatever’s left of this one soul kind of hollow, few ever give it to me, and thus I feel obligated to conceal mine from the world, in a façade of poker-faced coolness, but I am a lover of life and love and the beauty of everything around.
Three I am anger, I am fucking rage and irrationality and it’s here that my life loses it’s beats, because for each microcosm of love that sparks inside me, tidal waves of rage consequently follow. I am fury and irrationality, you make me hurl the way you glare at me with disapprovement, condescending tones and sarcastic glares, everyone’s got them, everyone’s got them for me. Everything’s aimed at me, and my defenses are up; I could unleash at you all just as horribly, if this porcelain shell of calamity ever begins to crack.
Four I am prodigy, according to you I’m the reason we’re here in the first place, the reason English was my first language, the reason I’m voting democrat, the reason I live in 5/4, the reason I took such hard classes, the reason I am talented has become my mantra. I’m a dream. A prodigy you’ve managed to construct of your own aspirations; bricks of talent and well-roundedness, liquid cement of academia; I’m some poorly built castle of prodigality, watch me cascade into the ruins of ******* *************.
Five I am nothing in this house, close the door and preserve the memories of my existence, maintain the pristine locations of where footprints and DNA remnants used to be, where the hairbrush was the last time I’ve used it– preserve it almost as though I was never gone. I’m back though, hollowly returned in my impromptu timing, restoring the heartbeat of this house into irregularity.