You call me bitter.

Yes, I am bitter.

Why wouldn’t I be?

The taste of your

failure on my tongue

burns from how you

taught us that our

creativity tastes of cough

syrup and fear and

that failure tastes of

our very own blood.


You call me restless.

Yes, I am restless.

How couldn’t I be?

I dance to the

exhaustive rhythm of discovering

that I identify with

test scores and not

by the rhythm that

stirred me from my

forceful and deafening education.