i remember how small the world used to be, when I wrote the date on my floundering math papers as "today" in a desperate attempt to inject humor in front of the torrent of self-doubt and feelings of obsolescence that stood behind a mental velveteen rope. i remember a vignette pressing in on every aspect of my life as i continued to struggle with the numbers and expectations and what it might mean to my already brittle grasp on what the future could be, trying so hard to fake being SOMEBODY for a few more days, because to them life should make sense.

Date: Today

in red pen, beneath: "This is not a place for jokes...!"
i can see him there, standing above the cliff face, having long jumped the metaphorical rope, clipped it to the side so all those shadows pressed in around, looking down on my fingertips: the type not really bred for success, the student that isn't really "getting it," the sour shrapnel pressing in on a palette, red stained and wine-flavored at the bottom of a pile of marking at 1am. 
I didn't belong in that class. 
"This is not a place for jokes"

Date: Today
"I warned you...!" 
red pen, that arbitrary authority deciding under shoe soles whether i should be doomed to service or swell to the ranks of greater academia, grinding the gravel, twisting the knife -- whatever you want to call it, my faith in myself and every possibility that would've made my grandparents so much prouder--not only did that red pen let me fall: it fucking pushed me.
(-1)
it wasn't the difference that made me fail
it was the difference that made me fail myself.
it wasn't the straw that broke the camel's back
it was bearing witness to a priest losing faith
turning away the starving, the tired, and the damned
receding into solitude in golden halls made for heroes
mutterings echoed throughout
"you can't help those who won't help themselves
it can't be helped
it can't be helped
why don't you just get a job
he'll just spend it on drugs
he's just not trying hard enough
he's just not taking it seriously
he's just not really 'getting it,'
this is not a place for jokes."

every breath i take is defiance
every day i work is a small and petty victory 
for those red-pen wielding tiny men 
with tiny hearts, half-full and withered and dull
i'd rather go hungry than empty-handed
in a place so full of empty palms reaching up
I'd sooner clasp them, carry them
ten hundred stone upon a broken back
than lift the weight of one red pen
the color that abandoned me.