650

One day, we become a piece of who we are

And will be—

Some time near our 18^th year. 

#2 Tichonderogas thrust in our palms,

We're supposed to re-write pages of

Lemonade stands and tadpole catching;

Dropping out of Hebrew school,

Tricking babysitters,

Frying apples 'cus we felt like—

Sike, the word count is 650.

AM Monday through Friday.

Except for October 28th

Of 2013. I never really went to sleep that night

Anyways.

October 28th of 2013,

The contents of an envelope entitled

Scholastic Aptitude Test

Infultrated my hands

And my brain and my heart and my lungs and my eyes

Not that I needed them anymore anyways.

And there isn't any thing I wouldn't do to read the first few pages again.

Again. Again. Again.

I re-wrote my own pages, and I bubbled in A, B, C, and D.

I used tichonderogas—#2

Only compatible with college deans' dreams.

I told them I like stuff like this,

And I'm sweet—

One time I spoke to a homeless man

And baked brownies for soldiers.

AND I was a girl scout in the fourth grade.

I scrawled, in under 650,

that National Honors Society

Saved me,

And learning algorithims

Diversified my brain.

I didn't tell them

How I accidentally squashed a sand toad with my shoe, or

How I ate an entire pack of gum at age 6.

And this year the small liberal arts schools weren't accepting pictures

Instead of essays

But if they were,

It would be papyrus drenched in tears,

To express all of the years I spent denying that I am me.

See, that part

Didn't fit the word count.

And I can't count how many times I screamed

Trying to make them.

You told me to tell you my story,

As if lives have plot lines and heroes.

Well guess what?

Shit,

Did I hit 650?