United States
36° 43' 53.31" N, 88° 40' 20.4888" W

I walk down the hall.

My text book burning my hands like hot irons.    

Carrying the shame that has effected me since birth.

My friend spots this geometry text book.

"You're in geometry? As a junior? Well at least you're pretty"







                  Their worst, my best. 



I have a disease.

Not the kind of disease that kills the body.

But a disease that kills the spirit.

A disease that revenges my self esteem and all

views of myself. 


                 Their worst, my best. 


Dyscalculia is the name.

No, not a vampire but a learning disability.





Definition: Dyscalculia, a severe difficulty in making arithmetical calculations, as a result of a brain disorder.






A girl with above average intelligence 

with below average performance. 

                Their worst, my best.


A contradiction that is as confusing as the brain that houses this infection that eats away

all views of myself.

The sweet kind girl that my mother sees is suffering away from home in the one place

that one should feel safe.

I am not safe.

Evil figures, equations and numbers are all around.  

Monsters lurking in every corner searching for weaknesses in my mind.



              Their worst, my best. 


An infection that strikes fear and loathing in my heart when a teacher asks me to keep

time in class. 

Swallowing shame, I ask another student for help because I cannot tell time.


               Their worst, my best.  


Now I sit in class.

Receiving another piece of paper that measures my above average intelligence with

below average results.

The moans of the freshman around me fill my ears.

A 70%? 

That's terrible they all say.

I look down at mine.

My heart fills with joy and shame for I got the same



                70% is the best grade I have received all year.  



This disease is incurable and can not be stopped.

It will continue to eat away at my mind and soul all my life. 

I must constantly look within, not out and know that numbers are the monsters.

The small problems in this world to you is what lies between me and everything that 

I hope to be.

My mathematical ability does not measure who I am.





you're pretty......


Yes, I am pretty.  

Pretty smart, pretty kind, pretty funny, pretty talented,

                         And pretty fucking bad at math. 

This poem is about: 



Love the ending. That's how you end a poem! With a BAM!


 Thank you so much!!!! I was hoping for that effect!

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