Jason Fan // 84

My finger rests

On the trigger

of my fate. I pull.

Bang, goes the number,

84, written in the blood of my sins.

84 ticks on the ruler I measure my ego with.

Disgusting.

 

“Why are you complaining?

That’s a great score!”   

         

       Your comforts thin and sugary,            

       Untouched by my reality.

 

Because I am Asian,

I am obliged:

Top-level classes, high GPA.

My father’s eyes stare, accusatory.

As red ink runs down my back.

These numbers meant to be my wings

Now cling to me, paper-heavy

 

       You idiot.

       You think

       You can get into an ivy

       With these grades?       

       Worthless.

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