I exist on a diet of coffee and pills.
Mocha and fluoexetine.
One to keep me up, one to keep me down,
one to keep me awake, one to put me to sleep,
one in the morning, one at night,
doctor’s orders.

What makes me tick.
What makes me sick.

One test. One hundred.
All A’s isn’t nearly good enough—
take these 90’s, add 10, maybe then.
My GPA is as dismal as my IQ,
both things I pretend not to believe in
like New Year’s Resolutions, which I don’t make
because I don’t have faith.

I take the blame and scoop it onto my shoulders.
Carry it. It’s as heavy as my backpack
in which I keep my feeble universe:
folders and pens and a single calculator,
my laptop and my driver’s license.

I’ve never met anybody with lower self-esteem than me.
I pride myself on being humble—I hate myself for saying that.
It’s a constant catechism inside my head
and if it’s the measure of intelligence to hold two conflicting ideals at once
than like most every other test, I’ve passed.

It’s been a good week.
I’ve started reading in the mornings.
I’ve gotten some sleep.
I’ve gotten all A’s, even if two of those are clutches
and I’m rocking on the brink.