They tell me I'm smart.
They say I shouldn't worry; of course I'll get good grades and get into a good college and get a good job and have a good life.
So I sit in chemistry and I pay attention. I write down the reactions, the calculations. I try, I really do.
Semester grade: C.
"Study more!" "Get off your laptop!" "If you went to bed earlier, you'd pay better attention in class." "It can't be that hard; you just need to put forth more effort."

Sometimes I find it hard to breathe.
My throat shrinks to an impossible size and every mention of a chemical equation is automatically magnetized to the ball of worry in my stomach.

When I get anxious, I pinch my lips.
I haven't had a need for lipstick in a long time.

Sometimes I find it hard to care.
Sometimes I dance to Beyonce and move my hips like I will never have another day to be alive.
I pretend that I am important and the ground moves beneath me while I give life to the stars and bring the moon to earth.
Maybe I can.
During musical theater class, I perform the solo and I act silly and I look stupid and I am okay.

They tell me I'm smart.
Sometimes I can't breathe, and sometimes I do not care.