Am I the price of my education—
my worth increasing, increasing,
increasing,
increasing
every year but I somehow
grow smaller?
Afraid of the consequences of failure,
assume gold-star success is only expected,
proportional to the increase in debt.
If not the tuition, it must be the grades
that define my high school worth.
The numerical proof of my education
feels etched into my dry, itchy skin
for display to those who notice.
See my averted gaze, torn fingernails pressed into my palm.
Hear my energetic voice jammed after exams. Static.
The learner becomes hesitant
of her ability to learn.
Do 100 good things really get cancelled out by 1 bad thing?
Quantitative resume descriptions,
quantitative measures of success,
heavy, heavy report cards weighing down on my hands.
How can I say I am more than the numbers?
The numberless character,
Passion for which the limit does not exist,
all these things matter.
I try to believe it
that I’m worth
the gifts, the compliments, the love
but where’s the number?
I’ll take a graph, even.
By NS
